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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598117">A Romantic Plastic Piece of Shit</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson'>objectlesson</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>2000s AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Childhood Friends to Lovers, College, Coming of Age, Flashbacks, Frottage, Gay Chicken, High School, Internalized Homophobia, Intricate Rituals, M/M, Marijuana, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Pop Punk AU, Rimming, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Teen Drinking Is Very Bad, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Vomiting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:00:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>59,876</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598117</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 2008, and Merlin's in college while Arthur's stuck in the valley working for his father's company, wondering why the hell he relates to every single one of Blink 182's songs about being brokenhearted, when his heart isn't even broken. At least, he doesn't <i> think </i> it is.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>225</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>149</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. YOU WERE THE LAST GOOD THING ABOUT THIS PART OF TOWN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>HELLO EVERYONE!!! Ok so I know I haven't posted a fic in forever but that's because I've been working hard on this long, emotional, embarrassingly personal pop punk AU and its FINALLY HERE!!!  So I grew up in the 90s and was in middle school/high school during the 2000s, and honestly that time was pretty traumatic and formative and I've been meaning to write something that takes place during this era forever. I've also been meaning to write fic inspired by The Matches (best pop punk band of all time, fight me on this) song "Dog Eared Page" about as long. Things finally converged and this story happened, and it's been an absolute blast to go down memory lane and remember how weird shit was back then, particularly around sexuality. </p><p>A blanket warning for this story: the 2000s were rife with homophobia, biphobia, and sexism. The characters in this story are realistic and informed by my own experience, and I the writer do not share their beliefs. This is period-typical and accurate to its time, NOT prescriptive. There is also a ton of underage substance use, and some substance abuse. Furthermore, there are allusions/mentions of underage sex, and of heterosexual sex, including Arthur/Vivian. None of it is explicitly but if you want to go in prepared, here's your warning!!!</p><p>ANYWAY ENJOY!!! I'm so excited about this story. I don't quite know how many chapters it will be yet, but I have six written and feel a little more than halfway through, so we'll see. Each chapter consists of a present day segment, followed by a flashback. </p><p>Also I've made playlists and moodboards for this fic on my blog, so go follow me at alienfuckeronmain and search "pop punk AU" for terrible jams and nostalgia in spades. ENJOY!!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2008</p><p>Arthur has been to this house before, he thinks. But he can’t be sure. Every fucking party since Merlin left for college is the same, anyway. He stumbles down the hall, accidentally tripping over a black cat that slinks by like a shadow and streaks into a room where a couple is fucking with the door open and their clothes on. He closes the door for them, then drains the last inch of Four Loko Blue Hurricane remaining in the can before crushing it and tossing it to the carpet. </p><p>His cheeks are burning hot, so he makes his way outside, past a torn screen door and over to the fire pit, where a bunch of people he only half-recognizes are all sitting around a guy with an acoustic guitar who’s butchering Blink songs while Van Morrison still rattles away inside on the speaker that someone’s laptop is plugged into, part of a shitty LimeWire mix. <em>Old Man Summer, </em>it’s called. He knows this because only an hour or so ago, when he arrived beer-tipsy and ready for more, he’d said <em>what is this shit</em> and tried to change it before Vivian slapped his hand away. Then she’d laced her fingers through his and pulled him close enough to kiss with sticky-lipgloss lips. It was awkward and bad, like every time Vivian kisses him, but he’s trying to not care about things being awkward and bad anymore, so he’d kissed her back, cupped his hand on her cheek, stuck his tongue in her mouth, tried not to notice the way she tasted like Juicy Fruit gum and fake strawberry, tried not to notice the way he’d found <em>glitter</em> in his teeth, later, when he’d bared them at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror while he gave himself pep talks he doesn’t even remember the details of. <em>Go Team. Go Arthur. </em></p><p>It’s chilly outside, but he’s lost his hoodie, so he decides to grit his teeth and deal with it anyway. If Merlin were here, he’d demand <em>his </em>hoodie because Merlin always has zip-ups instead of pullovers, and even if they’d be too tight zipped across Arthur’s chest, he can leave them hanging open like a cardigan, the smell of Merlin’s deodorant spicy and comforting still clinging to the pilling black fabric, band logo emblazoned on the front. Usually a band Arthur listened to but didn’t love as much as Merlin, because Merlin likes darker, sadder shit like Hot Water Music and Alkaline Trio and Dashboard Confessional. </p><p>Arthur shakes his head and lifts his forearm to bite the inside of it punishingly. He’s not supposed to be thinking about Merlin tonight. He’s supposed to be hanging out with his new group of “<em>friends”, </em>and kissing the lip-gloss off his new <em>sort of</em> girlfriend’s mouth. </p><p>He drops into a sagging lawn chair and stares up at the starless suburban darkness through a bleary Blue Hurricane haze, realizing he has no idea where Vivian is. Or if she’s his even girlfriend. It’s sort of unclear, after all. There’s also Elena, who he can hardly tell apart from Vivian when he’s drunk—they’re both blonde and big-eyed and smell like artificial fruit. He agreed to not worry about labels with either of them, so they’re vaguely interchangeable in his head, a yellow-pink haze of cherry cough drop taste and soft pale skin. Then there’s Mithian, who is so pretty and cool that he <em>should</em> be in love with her, if not for her looks then at least for the fact she’s a great drummer and her band once opened for +44 when the frontman of their actual opener came down with mono and had to jump ship. He hasn’t kissed her her or anything, but he’s banking on fireworks when he finally does. </p><p>But then again, Arthur isn’t in love with any of them. He doesn’t even <em>like</em> his new friends, not really. He picked them up in a parking lot near Paseo Colorado after a midnight showing of <em>The Scorpion King 2</em> the way a starving person might scrape free candy off the cement between movie theater seats. He just—he <em>needed</em> a big group. He needed pretty people for his myspace photos so that he didn’t have to obsess at night over <em>Merlin</em>’<em>s</em> new big group of college friends and <em>his</em> myspace photos, where he’s <em>smiling, </em>skinny arm looped around some terrifically good-looking dark-haired guy’s shoulder, cheeks bright, eyes brighter. <em>Fuck</em> Merlin, who won’t answer Arthur’s calls anymore. <em>Fuck</em> Merlin, and his new friends and new dorm and the hundreds of miles between them. </p><p>Arthur cracks open another Four Loko, red this time, maybe fruit punch. It tastes like bat mitzvah and birthday party and 1994. It makes him want to cry. Everyone is talking about <em>tattoos</em> around the fire—what tattoos are coolest, how Davey Havok has <em>Nightmare Before Christmas</em> tattoos, how rib tattoos are supposedly the most painful, how sexy Travis Barker’s tattoos are. Vivian is there, suddenly, talking about getting a nautical star tattoo on her wrist next year when she moves out, and Arthur just—he needs to leave. He doesn't want to go back into the house, so he ends up in some dead-grass dog run on the side of the yard, where it smells like piss and spilled beer. He trips over a half-deflated basketball and almost pitches onto the ground, but a springy, hedgy bush catches him, and he just stays there, wedged in its branches, sipping his drink and fumbling into the pocket of his skinnies for his phone. Before he can talk himself out of it, he’s hit number one on speed dial, and it’s ringing.</p><p>He <em>knows</em> Melin isn’t home. He’s at some stupid dorm in the stupid Bay Area. </p><p>Hunith will answer, though, and he doesn’t mind talking to Hunith. She’s probably sad and missing Merlin, too. And she’s just a single lady in her forties instead of a perfectly normal good-looking guy with a ton of friends, meaning she’s probably even lonelier than Arthur is. He’s doing her a favor, he bets. As the phone bleats in his ear, he checks his watch, trying to decipher the time in the dark. Maybe it's, like, 1am. Maybe it's <em>way</em> too late to call his friend’s mom, maybe—</p><p>“Hello?” she answers. </p><p>“Hunith!” Arthur says, relieved. “Hi.” </p><p>“Arthur,” she says, something wavering in her voice, like she knew it might be him. “Is everything okay, sweet boy?” </p><p>He wrinkles his nose in an attempt to ignore the sudden thickness in his throat. She’s always called him that, <em>sweet boy, </em>and it used to bother him when he was a kid because he didn’t <em>want</em> to be sweet, he wanted to be tough and punk. <em>Merlin</em> was the sweet one between the two of them, the one who cried when he got hit too hard in the face during dodgeball, the one who found butterflies on the soccer field and carefully cupped them between his palms and delivered them to safety so they didn't get crushed. Arthur isn't sweet. Arthur is the rough and tumble one, the one who protects Merlin, the <em>only</em> one who ever called him a girl or a sissy on the playground and got away with it because they were also best friends, so he was allowed to tease him. Hunith’s nickname doesn’t bother him anymore, though, not really. It just makes him sad. It makes him feel like he’s a failure, like he’s not good enough to live up to the title when he’s stringing three girls along and running away from his new friends to drunk-dial his old friend (<em>who left him)’s </em>mom on the phone. He swallows thickly. “No,” he slurs. “I was just calling to check on you.” </p><p>“To check on me?!” she laughs, like she knows <em>he’s</em> the pathetic one, the one in the bushes of his not-friend’s yard, blinking tears back as he imagines where the stars might be if he were above the scuzzy haze of the Valley. “That’s very nice of you, Arthur.” </p><p>“It’s, well. Merlin’s gone, and you’re all alone,” he mumbles, thumbing over the dull studs of his belt, closing his eyes and imagining Merlin’s living room. That’s probably where Hunith is right now, on the big recliner in front of the scuffed coffee table, watching the little TV with its static and rabbit ears. Merlin’s house is full of ‘70s furniture, worn in and comforting, everything brown and rust-colored. Arthur’s dad has called it tacky before—tacky, cheap, old—but Arthur thinks all the chairs and couches at Merlin’s house are a hundred times more comfortable than those at his own house. He’s at least <em>meant</em> to sit on them, they’re <em>meant</em> for sitting. For use. His throat stings as he adds, “It’s Friday night.” </p><p>“It is,” Hunith agrees. “But I bet Merlin’s at some party having a good time, making good choices. And I don’t feel sad, even if I miss him, I feel excited for him—for his future and his new life.” </p><p>“That’s good,” Arthur says, even though his stomach tightens up at the mere thought. “Healthy.” </p><p>“The quarter is almost over, Arthur. He’ll be back for spring break, and you two can go back to skating every day and trashing the kitchen with your <em>special,</em> awful baking.” </p><p>“<em>Merlin’s</em> awful baking,” Arthur reminds her, mouth twisting into an almost-smile as he remembers the plumes of flour and cocoa, the smell of burning wafting up from their failed edibles. It had been, like, $200 of weed down the drain, all because Melin was such a fucking idiot. Arthur’s eyes burn at the thought, a line creasing his brow as he shifts and a stick digs into his bare back where his shirt has ridden up. “I would never disrespect your house like that, Mrs. E.” </p><p>She laughs at him. “You know, your guitar is still over here, in the garage. I leave it unlocked, you can come over whenever—Merlin doesn’t have to be here for you to visit, you know.” </p><p>“Thanks,” he mumbles. Then—because he <em>has </em>to know—“Did you. Have you gotten any news?” </p><p>“News?” she asks. He can hear the frown in her voice. “What sort of news?” </p><p>“Oh, nothing to be worried about. Not <em>bad</em> news, just…Merlin news. He hasn’t really talked to me since Christmas.” It sounds so tragic and pathetic and <em>obvious</em> that he coughs, making a face in the pale, polluted night. His “friends” are playing Decemberunderground now, and that’s Merlin’s, like, third favorite album, and it makes Arthur want to fucking <em>die. “</em>Not, like, in a weird way. We just keep missing each other. Schedules and stuff.” </p><p>Hunith is quiet for a moment, then she says, “He’s doing good, Arthur. Just—he’s busy, lots of work. He’s taking five classes this semester, and he has his campus job, washing dishes. He’s up late studying most of the time, and Lance got him into trail running, so he’s been doing that.” </p><p><em>Lance. </em>That must be his roommate with the face and the eyes. What a stupid name. “<em>Trail</em> running?! Merlin? <em>Our</em> Merlin?!” he sputters, throwing back so much of his drink that his stomach twists in protest. “Weird.” </p><p>“Yes! Our Merlin,” she laughs, before her voice drops conspiratorially. “I suspect he wants to tell you this himself, so act surprised when he does, but he has a <em>girlfriend,</em> too, supposedly. Haven't heard much, but her name is Freya, and she’s apparently very smart. In his Medieval studies class.” </p><p>The blood roars in Arthur’s ears, deafening. He can’t remember what a normal response is or should be—in fact, he can’t respond <em>at all</em>. He tries to haul himself out of the bush, but he just crashes more deeply into it, spilling fruit punch all over his chest in a red slosh. “Oh,” he sputters. “A girl? Are you sure?” </p><p>“Not entirely,” Hunith admits. “I’ll let him tell you the details. He’ll be more forthcoming to his friend than to his mom.” </p><p>Arthur snorts bitterly. “I doubt it.” </p><p>There's a crackling sound from the other line, like Hunith is sighing. “Arthur, he’ll be home soon for you, and it'll be like he was never <em>gone, </em>you’ll see. In the meantime, <em>go, </em>have fun. I can hear whatever party you’re at, go be with people  and quit chatting with your friend’s old mom. You don’t need to worry about me, I’m fine.” </p><p>“Okay,” he says, dragging himself out of the bush by digging the heels of his Converse into the dead grass and scooting, prying his torso from the clutch of brittle twigs. There are leaves in his hair when he sits up, the darkness swimming around him unsteadily, like he’s just stepped off a trampoline. “I love you,” he admits, because Hunith is the only mom he’s ever had, really. </p><p>“I love you, too, sweet boy.” </p><p>And then she hangs up, and he pockets his phone and crawls out of the dog run on his hands and knees. Something is bleeding, he can smell the copper bite under the bonfire smoke. He ignores it, though—he’s got to find Vivian. Or Elena. Or Mithian. <em>Anyone </em>to drown the names Freya and Lance from the persistent echo of his head. </p><p>It takes forever. More people have shown up since he wandered off, and the <em>Old Man Summer</em> playlist got replaced with Green Day, so the walls are thrumming with grainy guitar. He blinks hazily and wipes the sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt, turning in useless dizzy circles until <em>finally</em> Vivian corners him in the kitchen and slams him into the fridge with chipped black nails. A plastic alphabet holding up a receipt for something falls on his head. “Where the <em>fuck</em> have you been?! We were gonna share a joint, but I couldn’t find you.” </p><p>“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Merlin’s mom called—she’s sad. Lonely. Misses him. So I talked to her.” </p><p>Vivians face softens, and she twists the dyed strip of hair framing her face around her finger. It’s sort of an orangey-salmon color now, but a few weeks ago, it was violently pink, like the Barbie aisle at Target. Arthur’s pretty sure he could use this feature to keep her and Elena separate in his head, but it’s hard when the shampoo just keeps washing it out, blurring them together, blonde and blonde and blonde and blonde. “Awe, really? That’s so sweet.” </p><p>“What can I say,” he mumbles, pressing his face into the washed-out once-pink of her hair and sniffing. Strawberries and cigarettes and Bacardi white. “I’m a sweet boy.” </p><p>“Yeah, you are,” she says, her voice getting that weird, tinny highness it gets sometimes. He’s not sure why she tries to sound like a baby when she’s trying to be sexy, but she does. It doesn’t work for him, but not much does, really. He’s broken, or at least this shitty <em>town</em> and all the girls in it are broken. They all try too hard, they’re all too rich, too <em>same, </em>too Burbank<em>. </em>Maybe things will be normal when he can get the fuck <em>out</em> of it. Drive north to the Bay Area, to San Francisco where Merlin is going to school. Maybe he’ll get a smart girlfriend, like Merlin’s smart girlfriend. A serious girl with glasses who takes notes in class and raises her hand when the professor asks shit. And he and Merlin can go on dates with their smart girlfriends to, like, the opera or wherever people go on dates when they’re smart. </p><p>He chews the inside of his cheek until it hurts a little, pulling back to look at Vivian and her shiny, sticky mouth. He can do this. He’s done it before. It’s not bad, it’s good, and sometimes good things are harder to do than to run from, and that’s fine. It’s fine. “Do you want to blow me?” he asks. </p><p>She giggles, which usually means yes, then she takes his hand and pulls him out of the kitchen and down the smoky, crowded hallway, which definitely means yes. He still makes her say it, though, after she checks inside the laundry room for couples who beat them to the punch before dragging him inside after her. “You <em>want</em> to, right? You’re not just—”</p><p>“Arthur,” she mumbles, kissing him, sloppy and sugary before unbuckling his studded belt and peeling his too-tight skinnies down his hips. “Stop overthinking and making things less sexy, okay?” </p><p>“Okay,” he says, blinking in the harsh fluorescence of the overhead light, head spinning. Then she pulls her hand back, peering down at the smear of blood on it. </p><p>“Is your—your <em>back</em> is bleeding,” she observes, making a face. He stares at this little line where her foundation doesn’t quite meet up with her hairline until he properly processes what she’s just said. </p><p>“Oh, uh, yeah,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, twisting around helplessly for a few minutes, his dick halfway out of his jeans and less than halfway hard, softer by the second the sicker he feels. It’s creeping up on him, like the fog he imagines in San Francisco, which he visited as a child but only <em>really </em>knows from Merlin’s new myspace photos. Finally, he finds the scratch, dislodges the scab that was trying to form, and feels the sting, his fingers coming away from the wound wet and sticky. “I fell in a bush,” he mumbles, blinking against a sudden cascade of dizzying stars blinding him. It smells overwhelmingly of detergent in here, and it’s giving him a headache. He can feel his heartbeat in his stomach. His mouth tastes like bar mitzvah and birthday party and 1994 and now blood, too, because he’s bringing Vivian’s delicate hand up to his lips and licking the red off, thinking that, in theory, it’s a cool thing to do. He tries to make a coy face about it, but he’s never been very good at anything save sneering, so ir probably comes out a sneer. </p><p>The metallic bite sends him over the edge like a sucker punch, and before he knows it, he’s dropping her hand, turning to an empty hamper, and puking a <em>torrent</em> of bright purple right into it. Vivian jolts back, like she’s scared. “Oh my god,” she says. “What the fuck! Why does it look like a 7-Eleven slushie?” </p><p>Arthur’s eyes stream, and he wipes them uselessly on the back of his hand as he spits and gags. <em>It’s because I’ve only had a blue drink and a red drink and some Takis Fuego, and all those colors together make purple, </em>he thinks,but he can’t talk. When he tries, he just retches again, and another waterfall of booze-puke pours out of his mouth and nose, burning the inside. Vivian starts to cough and gag before she realizes she can let herself out the back door, so she does. Just leaves him there with this stranger’s hamper and the smell of Tide. </p><p>He sinks to the floor. This isn’t better than a blowjob, but it's easier, and ease might be a win, tonight. So he bleeds from his back and drools from his mouth and occasionally pulls a dead leaf from his hair, all the while thinking <em>Freya. Lance. </em></p><p>And less occasionally but twice as pertinent and three times as jarring, sudden like a speed bump, <em>Merlin. </em></p><p>
  <em>—-</em>
</p><p>
  <em>2004 </em>
</p><p><em>The first time Arthur smokes weed, it doesn't get him high, he only coughs a lot, eyes watering, throat dry. He has to try a few more times for it to actually work, but when it finally </em>does,<em> it hits him train-hard. He can hardly speak, and he’s so fucking paranoid that he thinks the cops are aliens and also in Merlin’s backyard. All he can do is sit wordlessly with his legs crossed and his heart pounding, waiting to be taken away. </em></p><p><em>Merlin is a different sort of high, giggly and bloodshot and soft, so it takes him an hour or so to even realize how freaked out Arthur is, that this isn’t a </em>joke. “<em>Oh my god, you’re serious?!” he wheezes, shifting across the floor and leaning against Arthur, his knees bony and solid as they dig into his thighs. Normally Arthur wouldn’t hug Merlin without a good excuse, but he’s about to get sent to juvie by alien cops, so he supposes it doesn’t matter. He loops his arms around Merlin’s neck and drags him close. </em></p><p>
  <em>“M’serious,” he manages, though every letter seems extra long and weird and textured in his mouth. He hates it. It makes him drool onto Merlin’s Death Cab shirt. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“There are no cops, c’mon, I’ll show you. We’ll go for a walk, you need some fresh air,” Merlin promises him, breath smoky and sweet and hot against Arthur’s cheek before he stands and hauls Arthur up alongside him. </em>
</p><p><em>He grabs his walkman, wraps the headphones around it, and shoves it into the pocket of his hoodie, and Arthur watches every movement in slow motion. Merlin isn’t graceful, not by a long shot, in fact, he's actually the clumsiest person alive, but—there’s something about the way he moves that Arthur’s eyes get stuck on. He could watch the swan’s neck bend of his wrists forever, the way the tiny white flakes of his dandruff sit in the black of his hair like ash, like snow. He was a goofy-looking kid, and he's somehow a goofier-looking teenager, but in moments like this, when Arthur’s world is strung out and slowed down, it’s like he can see through the cracks of Merlin’s exterior to some gilded, shiny gold thing underneath. This year, Merlin started painting his nails and wearing eyeliner, wielding his weird features like badges instead of scars, and Arthur doesn't tell him so, but he thinks it looks sort of cool, thinks that it </em>works, <em>somehow. When they walk through the mall together, girls don’t </em>just<em> look at Arthur anymore, they look at Merlin, too. </em></p><p>
  <em>It makes him feel all sorts of shit he can hardly deal with on a normal day, let alone on a day he’s dying from weed poisoning, so he pushes it down, stuffs it into the darkest ventricle of his heart alongside the other stuff he doesn’t want to think about. Like the way his own father doesn’t love him as much as he loves Morgana, like the way he bullied a kid with a lazy eye in middle school before he knew how fucking horrible it was to make fun of shit like that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They leave through the front door because Hunith isn’t as strict as Uther, and if she caught them high, she’d just make sure they drank a lot of water and sat down to watch a movie or something instead of stealing into the night. If they sneak out of Arthur’s house after curfew, or if Merlin wants to come over in the middle of the night, they have to use the giant hulking oak outside Arthur’s bedroom window, climbing up or down it as quietly as possible, clinging to the bark, seeking out the footholds with the toes of their sneakers. </em>
</p><p><em>It smells like grass and night and damp asphalt outside, and sure enough, there are no cops </em>or<em> aliens in the backyard. Just a possum, which stares at them with giant glowing eyes before loafing away. “See?” Merlin mumbles, hooking his arm into the ditch of Arthur’s elbow and guiding him around the house and through the driveway to the sidewalk. “Let’s go to the park.” </em></p><p>What if we get caught?!<em> Arthur thinks in a panic, but he nods and sucks in a breath and follows anyway, determined not to seem scared of something stupid. </em>Merlin<em> is the scared one, the one who hides his face in the seat during scary movies, the one who covered his eyes and screamed and clung to Arthur the whole day the </em>one<em> time he dragged him to Knott’s Scary Farm. A little weed shouldn’t change that, so he jogs ahead, breath sending white plumes into the darkness as he announces with false bravado, “Wish I had my board.” </em></p><p>
  <em>“I don’t trust you to skate high,” Merlin fires back as he passes Arthur, who must not be moving as quickly as he thinks he is. Ahead of him, Merlin is nearly invisible in the darkness with his all-black clothes and back hair, and Arthur speeds up again, desperate to see the pale of his cheeks, the blue of his eyes, moonlight-bright and comforting, like the north star. Once he catches up, he knocks his shoulder into Merlin, almost knocking him over, and Merlin’s gaze flashes over to him, brief and watery. “Do you feel less paranoid?” </em>
</p><p><em>“Yeah,” Arthur admits, only half-lying. “Guess the fresh air did help. You very, </em>very<em> occasionally have good ideas, Merlin.” </em></p><p>
  <em>He snorts and turns away. Arthur’s cheeks are hot as they round the next corner and walk past the karate studio and hardware store and laundromat, all of which have black windows and dead neon signs because it’s late enough that everything is closed. The emptiness makes Arthur feel like he and Merlin are the only people alive—the kings of the strip mall, wild and invincible. The feeling swells inside Arthur until it takes over his body and he whoops, elbows Merlin, and takes off running, the soles of his Converse slapping the pavement until his calves burn. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>As soon as he makes it to the park, he dodges left and sprints across the parking lot to the playground. It’s a tiny, ugly thing, nothing but a swingset, monkey bars, and one of those single-tube slides, sun-bleached red plastic that’s always sticky and static-buzzy. He climbs the steps and collapses at the top, limbs haphazard as he catches his breath. Merlin arrives a few seconds later, winded and flushed in a way that makes Arthur feel very satisfied with himself. He’s still the brave one. The fast one. The athlete. The king of the strip mall, or playground, or whatever he’s found to conquer. Merlin is the one who follows. “Oh look, you decided to join us,” Arthur quips. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Glad you’re not afraid of being abducted by the LAPD spaceship anymore,” Merlin grumbles, crawling up and trying to sit beside him. There’s no room, so he puts his legs inside the tube of the slide instead, but then Arthur sits up and shoves him down abruptly, palms tingling from the warmth of Merlin’s skin bleeding through his clothes. </em>
</p><p><em>Merlin sputters in shock, but at the last minute, he sends out long sprawling legs and catches himself before he shoots out the other end, braced there inside the slide like a giant spider or the kid from </em>A Christmas Story<em>. Arthur grins down at him, wide and open-mouthed, before very carefully lowering himself in, too, so that together their bodies block the mouth of the slide like a clogged artery, an intestinal obstruction. Together, they are a heart attack. A piece of shit. It’s weird, and claustrophobic, and smells overwhelmingly like plastic, but it also feels secure and comforting, like some vast and profound secret: to be stuck in a playground slide with Merlin, wedged and motionless and totally invisible from the rest of the world. “This is cozy,” Merlin says, voice muffled against Arthur’s arm. </em></p><p>
  <em>“Shut up,” Arthur replies fondly. He’s still hazy-minded, but he’s not half as stoned as he was before, the high wearing off into a pleasant tingle softening the edges of his mind, making his limbs heavy, his heart warm. He presses into Merlin, humming at the comforting shift of his bones. “You brought music, right? Let's split the earbuds. It’s a party in here.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merlin fishes his walkman out and hits play, untangling the headphones to hand one to Arthur first and then to pop the other one in. The song is split, Arthur’s only getting bass and backing vocals, really, but he doesn’t even care. He shuts his eyes, drumming his fingers against the thick plastic ceiling of the slide, wincing at the layer of weird electricity clinging to him like cobwebs. He tries to make out the song, the band, but can’t place it with so few fragments, so eventually he gives up trying. Instead, he thinks about how even if this is only half a song and half a high, it’s all he needs from here until forever, probably. To be a heart attack, a piece of shit, Merlin by his side like velcro. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. EVEN IF YOUR HOPE HAS BURNED WITH TIME</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>True story: in 7th grade I had a boyfriend named Caleb. We made out at school dances and I hated it so much I would hide in supply closets to avoid this terrible fate. He was my best friend since kindergarten and I think we just sort of thought we were? supposed to date? so we did? But it was awful and I'm pretty sure neither of us liked it one bit. ANYWAY I broke up with him (on his birthday, oops) in 8th grade and he thought he had to "get me back" (what did this even mean, we were 12) so to do so, he and our other good friend Evan, PRETENDED THEY WERE DATING and would kiss each other at lunch? In an effort to win the affections of me and our other friend, Florence. It definitely got our attention, if not affection, because we were busy writing bandslash about 2000s Warped Tour bands and as a result guys kissing was relevant to our interests. </p><p>Everyone involved came out as gay later that year. Florence was my first girlfriend and she's still my best friend. I have no idea if Caleb and Evan still talk but I still occasionally see Caleb around and text his mom to see what she's up to. The other integral person in this middle school baby goth friend group is a trans guy. I'm pretty sure I was every single one of these people's first kiss. </p><p>Anyway, this chapter is sort of about that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2008</p><p>Arthur wakes up on a strange couch with a pounding headache, his eyes sticky and his throat prickling like he swallowed a fistful of jacks and the pink rubber ball right along with them. He rolls off the couch and onto the ground, where he promptly and unceremoniously lands on someone else. </p><p>“Oh shit,” he says, scrambling off the guy, who he thinks is named Gwaine. “Sorry,” he mumbles. </p><p>“No problem,” maybe-Gwaine says, shooting him a shockingly good-natured grin for someone who just got stepped on and woken up. He cards a hand through his hair, which is bottle-black and brittle save for the brown roots growing in underneath the dye. Arthur’s pretty sure he fronts a local band that he’s seen play a few times, but he can’t be sure. Pretty-boy frontmen all look the same to him. “I hear we were the messiest last night, which is why we got banished out here with the trash cans,” he explains, gesturing to a small collection of wastepaper baskets all lined up at the head of the couch. </p><p>Arthur groans. He doesn’t want to be grouped in with maybe-Gwaine. All of his memories of this guy heavily feature him stumbling, knocking things down, raucously singing, and literally falling over. Arthur’s not like that. Or else, he doesn’t <em>think </em>he’s like that, though it’s hard to be sure, especially when his throat is so sore from puking, his back all cut up from that fucking bush. “I need to get out of here before someone kicks my ass for ruining the laundry room,” he says, squinting in the early morning sunlight as he clumsily gathers his things and steps over Gwaine. “Nice to, like. Formally meet you, I guess.” </p><p>Gwaine makes finger guns at him. “You, too. Also, hey, uh, not to overstep, but you look like you could use a kernel of wisdom.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur snorts, pulling his hoodie over his head, hair rucked up with static. “Um, no thanks, bro, m’good.” </p><p>Unfortunately, Gwaine ignores him entirely and announces in his sagest voice, “She’s not worth it.” </p><p>Arthur narrows his eyes, feeling around his pockets for the brick of his phone. It’s not there, though, so he’s forced listen to this fucking guy while he pitifully digs around the threadbare couch cushions trying to find it. He fishes out an entire chicken nugget, a bunch of Corn Nuts, and three beer bottle caps before he grinds out, “She?! Who? Vivian?” </p><p>“Is that her name? The girl you’re busted up over?” </p><p>Arthur yanks out an entire cushion, glaring at the mess of crumbs and sand underneath. “I’m <em>not</em> ‘busted up’ over a <em>girl. </em>Vivian is my girlfriend. Or maybe she’s not after last night, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, there are other girls in the world.” </p><p>Gwaine then reaches up and punches Arthur’s leg in what he must think is a comforting, reassuring way. “That’s the spirit,” he says. “No point in missing her.” </p><p>“I don’t miss her,” Arthur mumbles, stuffing the cushion back in and sighing. “Can you check under the couch for my phone? Or else get up so I can.” </p><p>But Gwaine does neither, instead opting to gaze thoughtfully up at him with his brows knit into a pitying expression like he knows something Arthur doesn’t. It makes Arthur’s skin crawl, so he awkwardly straightens his hair as a defense mechanism. “M’just saying, man. No guy drinks and cries like that unless he’s had his heart broken. S’okay,” Gwaine eventually offers. </p><p>Arthur crosses his arms, bristling. “I didn’t <em>cry.” </em></p><p>Gwaine winks and holds up his hands in mock innocence before finally rolling over and running his hand under the ugly ruffled skirt of the couch, eventually emerging triumphant with Arthur’s very dead cellphone clasped in a fist. “Bingo,” he says as he hands it off, and Arthur decides he sort of hates him.</p><p> “Thanks. I didn’t cry,” he reiterates. He’s sure of it. He doesn’t cry, not even when he’s blackout drunk. He’s not the sweet boy his best friend’s mom thinks he is, he’s not <em>sensitive, </em>even when he’s sad, even when he’s mysteriously lonely in crowded rooms, even when he can only remember the night in bits and blurry pieces. </p><p>“I’m just saying,” Gwaine adds, an eyebrow quirking up, dark and slanted. “She’s not worth it.” </p><p>Arthur flattens his mouth out and widens his eyes, sidestepping from the room with his phone safely in his pocket. “Whatever, dude. See you around.” </p><p>Once Arthur arrives home, he scales the giant oak outside his window and dumps himself back into bed, even though he <em>knows</em> his father is away on a business trip and he could use the front door like a normal person, if he wanted to. It’s just an old habit, he decides, something born from nostalgia. Like maybe if he retraces his teenage steps enough times, he’ll time travel back to being seventeen with Merlin trailing after him, instead of being nearly twenty with too much money and not enough friends and Merlin fucking off to the Bay Area to get girlfriends he doesn’t even <em>tell</em> Arthur about. </p><p>He plugs his phone in, frowning. It takes forever to come back to life, and he’s <em>just</em> about to make himself get up and drink a fuckton of water before he passes out again to sleep his Saturday away when the screen flashes awake, the familiar pale green drawing him in like one of those bug zappers that dumb moths can’t resist. He blinks at it for a long time before he properly registers the message notification, thinking he’s imagined it up, wished it into existence from sheer, desperate wanting. But it doesn't go away, even after he screws his face up and blinks again: <em>Merlin</em> texted him.</p><p>He wants to grab his phone and type back <em>where in the hell have you been you absolute fucking asshole motherfucker !!! </em>without even reading the message, but he manages to hold back long enough to open the little folder graphic with a clumsy thumb, squinting to read. As it turns out, the text itself makes no fucking sense. He wouldn’t even be certain it was for him in the first placeif it didn’t start with his fucking name, which he can very painfully hearin Merlin’s voice, the syllables slurred because Merlin always mumbles. </p><p><em>Arthur, what the hell. it’s the middle of the night. we had to take the phone off the hook. i’ll call you tomorrow, </em>it says. </p><p>He ignores the other bits for a few seconds and zeroes in on <em>I’ll call you tomorrow. </em>Just seeing those <em>words, </em>imagining Merlin’s exasperated, exhausted voice as he scrubs a hand over his face in irritation, pink mouth distorting under the pressure of his palm…the mere thought has Arthur’s heart pounding in his chest. Because if he sent this last night, tomorrow means <em>today. </em>Merlin is supposedly gonna call him <em>today</em>. They’re gonna talk. He’s gonna have some <em>fucking explanation, </em>presumably, for why he’s been such a <em>ghost</em> since Christmas break. Why he’s <em>ignored</em> Arthur. Why he’s made him question his whole freaking existence and the entire seven-year span of their fucking friendship. His pulse is speeding, and he presses his phone into the hollow of his throat for a moment to steady himself, eyes fluttering closed, the navy plastic comfortingly cool against the sweat-sticky fever of his skin. He didn’t even realize it, but it’s felt like he was holding his fucking breath for <em>months, </em>and he only <em>just</em> exhaled. The sensation of relief prickles at the back of his eyes, making them well up, and he defiantly wipes them on his hoodie sleeve. Fuck Gwaine, he didn’t <em>cry</em> last night. </p><p>After a few wavering breaths, he wakes up his phone again, first to reread Merlin’s text and then to try to decipher what in the fuck he was even <em>talking</em> about. Who is this <em>we? </em>And leaving the phone off the hook implies someone was calling it incessantly, which Arthur <em>wasn’t. </em>Or at least, he doesn’t <em>remember </em>it if he was. Reluctantly, he checks his call history, a nagging anxiety making his palms perspiration-damp. </p><p><em>Bingo, </em>Gwaine’s smug voice echoes in his brain. Five calls. <em>All</em> to Merlin’s dorm-room extension that Arthur apparently has committed even to drunk memory. <em>All</em> after midnight. He rubs his knuckles over the bridge of his nose as he frowns, wondering what the fuck is <em>wrong</em> with him, why he got blackout drunk on a Friday night only to puke his way out of a free blowjob with a perfectly hot girl who supposedly likes him, <em>just</em> to blow up his best friend’s fucking phone instead. It’s embarrassing. He's falling apart. </p><p>This is definitely Merlin’s fault. If Merlin wasn’t so goddamned <em>scarce</em>, then Arthur wouldn’t need to <em>do</em> this shit. He wouldn’t need to get blackout drunk in the first place. He thumbs over the keypad of his phone, chewing the inside of his cheek raw before typing out <em>sorry i was shwasted at a party. wen ru calling? </em></p><p>Merlin does not answer for several hours. Arthur tries not to fall asleep, but now that he’s bedded down in the comfort of his own bed, he can’t <em>help it. </em>The weight is coming for his limbs, tugging him down into the Egyptian cotton, beneath the goose down, and it's increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open. His mattress is just so much better than that awful sagging pullout couch that no one bothered to actually pull out for him after he made a scene filling a laundry hamper up with recycled Four Loko before, apparently, calling Merlin and his <em>stupid</em> roommate five times in rapid succession. He’s hungry, and he really wants to shower, but he can barely make himself move, so he just kicks his shoes off and pulls the covers over his head until the sound of his text notification startles him awake. </p><p><em>Now </em>the text says. And just like that, his phone rings. </p><p>Arthur drops it into his sheets, which is probably for the better because otherwise he would have answered it first ring like some simpering, desperate girl. Instead, he sits up and blinks blearily, scrambling around in the bed before he finds it, stomach tied up in anxious knots as he answers. “You better have a good fucking story,” he snaps. “For where the hell you’ve been.” </p><p>There’s a crackle on the other side, like Merlin is suddenly exhaling. <em>Scoffing</em> at him, even, face twisted into that incredulous look that Arthur has always been insanely grateful for. Before he made friends with Merlin in the sixth grade, he <em>never</em> knew if other kids genuinely liked him or not, or if they were just sucking up to him because he was rich and his father threw great end of the year parties at his country club. But Merlin never lied to him. Merlin wasn’t afraid of him. Merlin would tell him he was being an ass even if Arthur put him in a headlock over it before eventually coming around and admitting he was right, so. The sound of his affronted cough on the other line is actually <em>comforting. </em>It makes Arthur’s throat tight, his cheeks hot. <em>Merlin</em>, he thinks, in time with the speeding tattoo of his heart. </p><p>“Hello to you, too,” Merlin snaps. “I think <em>you’re</em> the one who owes <em>me</em> a good fucking story.” </p><p>“I don't know what to tell you,” Arthur admits, voice a bit less guarded now that the relief is settling in every second that he has Merlin <em>here</em>—has his low muttering voice, the image of him in his head, the way he looks as he purses his petal-pink lips together in a fierce line whenever Arthur says something stupid. “I don’t remember calling you last night. Must have felt urgent at the time, though.” And then, after a beat of tempered silence where he can’t hear anything but the buzz of static and interference, “M’sorry if I ruined your precious scholarly sleep or whatever.” </p><p>“Arthur,” Merlin sighs after a minute. “Not just <em>mine</em>, you woke Lance up, too. We freaked out, we were <em>worried, </em>it’s <em>weird</em> to get a call like that in the middle of the night. I thought something had happened until I picked up and saw it was just <em>your</em> drunk ass.” </p><p>Arthur swallows thickly. He doesn’t like a single thing Merlin is saying. He doesn’t like the idea of Merlin and Lance <em>sleeping</em> together in the same room and being startled awake at the same time. He doesn’t like the fact that Merlin <em>answered</em> and they <em>talked</em> last night, and he apparently doesn’t even fucking remember. His former sense of relief is evaporating into nothing, leaving him empty and shaking and sick. It’s like coming out of the sea on a very hot day, the way the comforting cool of the water is <em>gone</em> by the time you make it back to your towel in its patch of scalding sun. He wants it back—he wants to feel like this was just some misunderstanding, he wants to be reassured that Merlin hasn’t <em>really</em> been ignoring his calls, that he <em>does</em> want to talk to him and is just too mysteriously busy or something. But now the doubt is burning him again, making him squirm. He kicks off his covers. “What if I’d been <em>dying, </em>Merlin, what would you have done then? Let me fucking die?” </p><p>Merlin snorts. “When I picked up, I could tell you were just fucked up. I told you not to call back, but clearly that didn't work.” </p><p>This is all wrong, this isn’t how they <em>are, </em>this isn’t how they usually tease or give one another a hard time. Merlin’s voice is flat and cold, glassy like a frozen, impenetrable thing. He feels like he’s miles away, across the whole entire state, and then Arthur realizes with a brutal, gutting pang in his chest that he <em>is. </em>He makes a frustrated fist in his pillowcase. “What has gotten into you?!” he says then. “Like—Merlin, I—”</p><p>“I need. Fuck,” Merlin says, so suddenly, interrupting Arthur so that his voice dies in his throat, the whole of him backing off like he’s been struck. There’s something harsh about Merlin’s voice, something primal and barbed and breathless. He sucks in a staggering inhalation that crackles over the line before blurting, “I don't expect you to like this or to understand why I’m doing it, but I just. I need space from you, Arthur. I need you to not call me or text me for awhile.” </p><p>It hangs there in the air like a fucking death sentence. Like a guillotine blade poised to come slicing down. Arthur gulps for a few frantic moments, waiting for a punchline, a revocation, <em>something. </em>Because Merlin is his best friend. Merlin is his <em>best friend</em>, and he wouldn’t fucking do this to him, especially not without an explanation. “What the fuck,” he spits out. “<em>Space, </em>Merlin?! Haven’t you had<em> space? </em>We haven’t talked for real in—”</p><p>“No. <em>I’ve</em> been trying to make space, and <em>you</em> are drunk-dialing me <em>and my mother</em> from house parties. I need <em>actual</em> space. I need—” and then his voice cracks, gets weak and reedy, and Arthur so suddenly can picture the wet, glistening sheen his pale blue eyes get when he’s about to cry. Panic twists suddenly in his chest. Merlin is like the flecks of fool’s gold in a fistful of sand, draining out between the gaps of Arthur’s slatted fingers no matter how desperately he tries to hold on. Swept out from under his feet by the tide. Disappearing. “Arthur, please. Just—don’t call me until I call you.” </p><p>And then he fucking hangs up. </p><p>Arthur cannot believe it. “Merlin! <em>Merlin!” </em>he yells at his phone, even though he definitely heard the call end. Merlin is gone. Gone like he was in September when the school year started. Gone like he was in January after winter break. <em>Gone. </em>Arthur sits there panting in his bed, heart racing, head throbbing along with its dull, panicked thud. Merlin didn’t have some fucking excuse, he had a <em>prepared speech. </em>This wasn’t an accident, they weren’t drifting apart, Merlin was <em>consciously, intentionally </em>pushing him away. </p><p>And Arthur doesn’t even know <em>why. </em></p><p>The pain is so massive and blinding that Arthur has the absolutely absurd, illogical thought that it’s connected to his phone, so he chucks it across the room until it ricochets off the wall opposite his bed before falling onto the carpet. Of course, the pain stays. Clings to him, constricts around his heart, makes his breath come fast and unsteady until he retches again. Nothing comes out, though, he already emptied himself entirely last night. </p><p><em>Shut it off, </em>he thinks as calmly as possible, standing up and pacing his room for a few seconds, thinking the phrase over and over again until it loses all meaning. <em>Shut it off. Shut it off. Shutitoffshutitoffshutit. </em>The words turn pale and mushy and indistinguishable, like worm guts on a sidewalk on a rainy day, and Arthur imagines biking over wet cement, killing earthworm after earthworm under the slice of his bike tires. It’s a weird thing to think about as he hasn’t ridden a bike in fucking years. The last time he did, it was around the Rose Bowl with Hunith and Merlin, and he can’t think about that because he can’t think about Merlin, so he banishes the thought completely, sucking in a tight, aching breath. </p><p>Finally, when he feels numb enough to sit down on the edge of the bed, he does. </p><p>So Merlin doesn’t want to be friends anymore, for some fucking reason. That’s fine. He should have known this was going to happen, if he’s honest. He’s been secretly afraid of it ever since Merlin told him he was going to college outside of LA in the first place, that he had a scholarship for a school in San Francisco. Arthur had been shocked because he just sort of assumed nothing would ever change between them, that they’d stay in the same city forever because they were best fucking friends who wanted the same things, obviously. He’d worried about it then, and he should have <em>listened</em> to that worry, paid mind to the way it creeped up his throat and choked him. Some part of his body sensed it—that Merlin wasn’t <em>just</em> trying to get away from this shitty suburb in the Valley, from the dirty urban sprawl and ugly billboards and endless parking lots stretched out like military graveyards, neat rows of modest white and gray sedans lined up like headstones. Merlin was trying to get away from <em>him. </em></p><p>He doesn’t understand why, but it doesn’t matter, he decides. Because <em>fuck</em> Merlin. Fuck his blue eyes and soft slurring voice and his infuriating sincerity. Fuck his zip-up hoodies and the way he shoves his big pale hands into the pockets of them. Fuck his ‘70s couches and the sound of his Converse scrabbling on the oak bark outside Arthur’s window. Fuck his walkman and his Decemberunderground and his <em>roommate</em> and his <em>girlfriend</em> and the whole city of San Francisco and all of its fog, too. Arthur doesn’t need him. </p><p>His dad always told him that he’d outgrow a friend like Merlin, that they were different in ways nothing could change and one day he’d realize it and find his <em>own people </em>and fall into place with them. And Arthur had always rolled his eyes and scoffed at him because he couldn’t imagine his life without Merlin, couldn’t imagine living without him, but apparently Uther was right all along. </p><p>Arthur rolls onto his side, teeth grit, face burning. And his pillow gets wet, his cheeks get salt-tacky, his eyes are swollen and red-rimmed when he finally drags himself out of bed to wash his face and choke down some water, but he doesn’t cry because he never cries, so he’s not sure what all that is about, anyway. </p><p>—-</p><p>2005</p><p>
  <em>The first time it happens, it’s the very last day of their sophomore year of high school.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They’re at a pool party. It’s not an official party—not like the ones Uther always hosts at the country club, where their teachers come and no one can drink unless they manage to smuggle a bottle shot into the bathroom to chug it in secret without getting too sloppy and giving it away. This one is at some guy’s house. A senior who’s obsessed with Morgana and will do anything she says, even let a bunch of underclassmen get rowdy and stupid and do cannonballs into the deep end until the cement of his backyard is completely soaked through and there’s a broken vodka bottle at the bottom of the hot tub. Arthur cuts his foot on it and ends up in the guy’s downstairs bathroom with Merlin, rifling around in the medicine cabinet until they find a pair of tweezers. Merlin gets down on his knees, jacuzzi-reddened face split through with a stupid, half-drunk grin as he props Arthur’s heel up on his narrow thigh and begins prodding around in it to try and pull out the little sliver of glass. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Arthur studies him through chunks of his own wet hair, at the way his own blood is diluted with pool water so the droplets are pink as they bead on Merlin’s long, pale fingers. He looks and he looks, drinking up the sight of him, pale everywhere save for the red marks on his back from the jets, his flushed cheeks, his sopping black trunks clinging to his skin. “Ouch,” Arthur says, even though he’s too drunk for anything to really hurt. He just wants the blue of Merlin’s eyes to flick up and hold him, if only for a moment. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It does, sudden and sapphire. Arthur’s stomach swoops how it does sometimes when it's just him and Merlin behind a locked door, in some womb-tight little room while bass thuds outside on boombox speakers. Someone put on 50 Cent, and Arthur hates it, but he loves to hate it because Merlin hates it, too. </em>
</p><p><em>He tears his gaze away. There are things he feels, and he's decided it’s alright to feel them as long as he doesn't </em>think<em> about them too much, or try to put words to them. They can exist unnamed and secret. “Got it,” Merlin announces, holding up the tweezers with the little bit of glass clasped in their grip. </em></p><p>
  <em>“Good,” Arthur says, both relieved and disappointed that they’ll be rejoining the party, hand tremulous as he claps it on Merlin’s shoulder. “Band-Aid?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Uh huh,” Merlin mumbles, brow knit in concentration as he dabs Arthur’s foot dry with some toilet paper before carefully pasting the bandage on. “There you go. S’gonna come off if you swim again, though.” </em>
</p><p><em>“Too bad,” Arthur says, shooting Merlin a lopsided grin before hauling him up and grabbing his red cup where it's sitting on the counter with a few inches of Jungle Juice in it. “It’s a pool party, Merlin, m’not gonna skip out on the fucking </em>pool.” </p><p>
  <em>Once they’re outside again, he somersaults into the deep end, gasping as he surfaces and Merlin drags him back to the shallows. And maybe Arthur does stupid stuff, sometimes, just so Merlin will touch him. Maybe his life is a bleary, boring, lonely stretch of homework and empty hallways punctuated by the moments when Merlin digs his fingers into the ditch of his elbow. The moments when Merlin’s bony shoulder fits under his own gripping palm. The moments when Merlin sticks tweezers into his wounds and pulls things free before they work themselves deeper. </em>
</p><p><em>Arthur swims over to his drink, tilts his head back, and chugs, draining the cup before cheering, crushing it, tossing it into the bushes somewhere behind Morgana. She flips him off from where she’s sitting on the edge of the pool with her black parasol because Morgana is </em>so<em> fun at parties. “What the fuck is she doing?” he asks, twisting out of Merlin’s grip because it’s </em>distracting, <em>how much skin there is, how slick it feels as the crystalline, chlorinated blue licks around them. “Who brings an </em>umbrella<em> to a pool party?” </em></p><p><em>“Your sister,” Merlin offers, shrugging. He’s not as drunk as Arthur is, and that </em>bothers<em> him, puzzles him. He wishes he hadn’t finished his drink so that he could have made Merlin do it for him, but in a fit of sudden brilliance, he steals one from a random girl sitting by the side of the pool next to him. “Can I borrow this? Thanks,” he says before grabbing Merlin, putting him in a headlock, and pressing the rim of the cup to his lips so that they dimple beneath the press of it. “Open up, Merlin, you’re not having enough fun.” </em></p><p><em>Merlin sputters, half-heartedly fighting him off but mostly just collapsing into his side with a splash before reluctantly choking down a few foamy sips of cheap beer. “I’m having plenty fun,” he spits out before shoving the cup away. “And if </em>I<em> get drunk, who’s going to make sure your Band-Aid doesn't come off and you don’t bleed to death in this pool?” </em></p><p><em>The girl Arthur stole the drink from is looking at them, wide-eyed. She has dyed purple hair that’s dripping down her neck and staining it in dark, bruise-looking trails of violet. “That’s hot,” she says, and Arthur </em>feels<em> Merlin color against his arm, the sudden heat of his cheeks burning him. </em></p><p>
  <em>Arthur pushes him under the water as he kicks. “What? Me?” he asks her, grinning. He didn’t particularly notice her before this moment, but she’s sort of pretty, he guesses. Arthur’s attraction to girls is almost exclusively prompted by his own vanity. If they notice him, he’s bound to notice them back, even if he wouldn’t otherwise. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No, you and—him,” she explains as Merlin surfaces, spitting. “It’s hot when boys make out.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s like an explosion, an H bomb. It levels the backyard and silences the whole party and Arthur can’t hear the shouting or the laughter or 50 Cent anymore, all he can hear is the sharp, sudden ringing in his ears. “What?! We weren’t making out,” he snaps. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She snatches her drink back, regarding him with surprised eyes lined in clotty kohl. “Maybe you should then,” she suggests with a shrug. </em>
</p><p><em>Arthur is staring as she turns back to her friend to titter about something private, and Merlin drifts in the water beside him, cheeks still very pink. As pink as his mouth, maybe, which Arthur is noticing. Not for the first time, not really, but perhaps for the first time with </em>permission. <em>With outside encouragement. “Dude, did you know girls were into that?” he asks, stomach fizzy and hot with booze and other things he feels but cannot think about, or name. </em></p><p>
  <em>Merlin nods. “Yeah. I think it's, like, because the guys in that Panic at the Disco band do it, and—”</em>
</p><p><em>“What the fuck! Why aren't we making out then?” Arthur demands. If he </em>knew<em> there was an easy way to get girls’ attention that didn’t involve, like, actually talking to or flirting with them, a way that </em>involved Merlin, <em>who always makes everything a hundred times more bearable, he would have already been </em>doing<em> it. He feels like he just found a cheat code. </em></p><p><em>Merlin’s eyes flash, something tugging the corner of his mouth up into an incredulous almost-smile. “I didn’t think you’d be down for the </em>actual kissing<em> part,” Merlin offers, tongue passing over his lips nervously, everything so fucking pink that Arthur is dizzy just </em>looking<em>. “But if you are, then</em>—<em>yeah. I guess we should. I mean. I don’t mind.” His gaze flits across the pool, as if he’s taking inventory of all the girls there who might lose their shit upon witnessing their liplock. </em></p><p><em>But Arthur doesn’t care about the girls, not specifically, the fact that they exist in general and as an idea is enough. He’s itching already, he’s gonna lose his nerve if he doesn’t do something </em>soon, <em>so he shakes his head and grabs Merlin, eyes sweeping over his blindingly white chest before landing on his shock-parted lips. “Hey, purple-hair,” he says without looking at her, though he hears the sound of her turning, feels the burn of her mascara-black eyes. “Watch.” </em></p><p>
  <em>And then he kisses Merlin. </em>
</p><p><em>It’s not at all how he’s expecting—he thinks they’ll sort of move their mouths around and fake it (not that he has any preexisting ideas about how one might fake-make out), but instead, Merlin cups his face between his palms, holds him in place, and </em>really<em> kisses him, for </em>real. <em>It’s soft and hot, and then he’s flicking his tongue over Arthur’s lips, and Arthur is opening up for him instinctively with a shudder. Merlin tastes like purple-hair girl’s beer and smells like chlorine and Coppertone and fuck—</em>fuck. <em>Somehow, Merlin is a good kisser. So good that Arthur gets a little carried away, his stomach in knots as their tongues tangle together naturally, slick and wet and maddening. The girl is catcalling at them, but he hardly registers it. He's forgotten about her because it’s been, like, months since he was kissed, and even then he doesn’t really remember much about it, only that it was at someone’s basement show, that she had a lip ring and tasted like cigarettes. </em></p><p>
  <em>Arthur only stops kissing Merlin when he’s suddenly whacked over the head by his sister’s stupid lacy black umbrella. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What are you doing?!” she shrieks as they pull apart. Arthur gets a glimpse of Merlin’s mouth all swollen and pink, his eyes dark and pupil-black before he's struck with a faceful of parasol again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What the fuck!” he snaps, batting it away. “What’s your problem?” </em>
</p><p><em>“What is </em>your<em> problem? I don't want to see you and </em>Merlin<em> suck each other's faces! You’re my brother and he's, like, my other brother! I’m right here!” Morgana yells, like this is her fucking pool just because the guy it belongs to wants to touch her tits. It’s annoying. </em></p><p>
  <em>“She told us to do it, get mad at her,” Arthur says, pointing to purple-hair girl, who is currently chatting with Merlin. Because, oh, yeah… right. This was about getting girls to talk to them. Merlin is doing it right, and Arthur is fighting with his sister.</em>
</p><p><em>A Band-Aid floats to the surface, and he flinches away from it before realizing it belongs to him. Then he fishes it out, lunges for Morgana, and sticks it to her pale arm. Arthur wishes she was the sort of sister to scream about something like that and leave him alone, but instead, she very calmly rips it off, sets her umbrella down, and crashes into the water to sucker-punch him. He dodges out of the way in time, but only just, and it’s a whole </em>saga<em> then, getting away from her, bloody footprints, and the sudden sting of reopening a glass wound. </em></p><p><em>Merlin ends up disappearing into the house with purple-hair girl, and even though that was </em>supposed<em> to happen, Arthur still hates it. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. I TURN MY FACE TO A CARELESS SKYLINE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>More! Shout out to my 2000s crush Carmen Electra, I used to get her aerobic strip tease DVDs from the dollar bin as Sam Goody for cheap wank bank material.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2008</p>
<p>Arthur discovers that it's much easier to hate Merlin than it is to miss him. It’s less <em>painful, </em>anyway, and more productive because at least he can <em>do</em> things when he’s angry. He can furiously eat, shoving Count Chocula cereal into his mouth by the fistful since pouring milk seems like too much work, and something about the brown sugary mess of it in his bowl after he’s done makes him want to cry. He can furiously <em>skate, </em>kicking the cement to propel himself with so much force that his ankle is sore when he finally arrives at his father’s office where he “works.” He can furiously “work,” which mostly means stapling things together with determined violence and punching endless numbers into an Excel sheet and dicking around in front of a computer with headphones in until someone tells him to go home. He can furiously drink beer in the privacy of his own room, air drumming along to Blink-182, not at <em>all</em> waiting for someone to call his cell and tell him there’s a party. </p>
<p>He can’t sleep, not really, but lying awake, thinking <em>I hate him so much </em>is far easier to sustain than lying awake, thinking <em>I wonder what Merlin is doing right now. </em>At least Arthur does not have to endure the ache that always follows the latter—the emptiness in his chest, the dull thud of his heartbeat, like an endless fucking funeral march. Instead, he gets to grind his teeth, sock his mattress, press his face into his pillow, and yell as loudly as he can until his throat burns in that raw, satisfying way it does after he’s screamed all the lyrics to every song of a band’s set. </p>
<p>It feels <em>good</em> to be angry. It feels like something rupturing, after being swollen and infected and tender for ages.</p>
<p>When Arthur was ten, he got a staph infection in his leg after a wedding. It was a stupid thing—his little kid-suit trousers were too big, so his nanny hemmed them, jamming pins through the extra fabric to prevent them from falling off his narrow hips in the middle of the ceremony. He’d been bored for the whole of the rehearsal dinner, though, and spent much of it stabbing himself repeatedly with the points. Not deep enough to break the skin, not really, just enough so that the area was swollen and pink with a hundred little pricks, raised and irritated. Stab stab stab, poke poke poke, over and over again until his ankle looked like road rash. That night, in the hotel, he took a bath, and some fucking bacteria or something must have swam its way up into his bloodstream through the tiny wounds because the next day, there was an ugly whitehead in the middle of the little pinprick-graveyard, like a zit. It hurt—he still remembers the sickening way it resounded up his calf with every step, hot to the touch, tender like a bruise. </p>
<p>He was the ring bearer. He bore the ring. He stiff-legged it up there and presented it, and everyone thought he was faking the limp for the drama until he started crying during the reception and wouldn’t even touch his cake. His dad drove him to the ER himself because Uther was the sort of dad who only showed any concern for Arthur when he was about to fucking die. </p>
<p>It turns out he caught staph, possibly from the tub or maybe the hotel pool, which was indoors and sort of cloudy and probably crawling with nasty shit. The nurse applied a hot compress to the swollen pus-green protrusion, and then she prodded a little at each side with her gloved fingers until <em>voila:</em> Mount Vesuvius erupted. There was pus and lymph and blood everywhere, and Arthur watched with a mix of revulsion and fascination as she cleaned the wound, bandaged it, and sent Uther home with antibiotics. And sure, it <em>hurt</em> after it was drained. But it was a superficial hurt. A flesh wound. It wasn’t the deep, nauseating, under-the-skin ache of an infection.</p>
<p>And that’s what being mad at Merlin is like—a post-staph wound. Arthur can take his cefazolin and switch his Band-Aids, and eventually the mark it left will crust over with a scab and heal. But he’s not gonna <em>die</em> from it. He’s not destined to limp up the aisle with tears in his eyes and bile in his throat, wondering if they’re gonna have to chop his leg off when the infection gets into his blood and turns septic. He’ll be fine, as long as he stops jabbing the needle in. Stab stab stab, poke poke poke. <em>I hate him so much, </em>like a refrain, like a heartbeat. </p>
<p>Arthur finishes the last two cans of Rolling Rock he had stashed under his bed. He hates cheap beer, but it’s nice to have on hand so people don’t notice right away that he’s rich. Still, there’s no one watching him drink right now, so he decides it's probably fine if he goes downstairs to grab some of his dad’s Red Stripe from the fridge, or hell, maybe even a handle of vodka. He can always replace it before Uther returns from his conference out of town. The whole liquor cabinet is at Arthur’s disposal, if he wants it. The kitchen is his fucking oyster. </p>
<p>He’s considering the collection of top-shelf bottles when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t even check the number before clicking accept and holding it to his ear, heart in his throat because the <em>last</em> phone call he had was <em>the </em>phone call, and he’s still trying not to think about that too much. <em>I hate him so much. I hate him. </em>“Hello?” he snaps. </p>
<p>“Hey, Arthur?” the voice says. A girl’s voice he hardly recognizes, it’s high and tinny but clear in its confidence, none of the wilting flower business Vivian pulls on the phone. “It’s Mithian.” </p>
<p>“Oh! Oh. Hey. Mithian. Hi,” he says awkwardly, cheeks getting hot. Mithian always makes him nervous, probably because she’s, like, his dream girl on paper. She’s the sort of girl he wants to marry—she likes the same music that he does, she’s a rad drummer, she skates and eats burgers and can do this sick knife trick with her spread fingers on a table like <em>Xena: Warrior Princess</em>. But the thing is, Arthur is only 20 and not ready for marriage. He needs to have lots of drunk, casual, meaningless sex before he settles down, so it’s really annoying and inconvenient that he already <em>knows</em> Mithian. He was supposed to meet her some time in the future, when the band he and Merlin eventually start hits it big and is touring somewhere and she introduces herself at the merch booth and they fall in love. He doesn’t know what to <em>do</em> with her now—he doesn’t want to fuck it up the way he fucked it up with Vivian and will probably fuck it up with Elena, but he’s also not ready to <em>commit</em> to anything. It sucks. It makes him tremendously awkward around her. </p>
<p>“Hey,” she says, laughter brightening her voice, making it crackly with static. “What’re you up to tonight?” </p>
<p>“Um, ah. I should. Well. Check my planner. But nothing, I think.” </p>
<p>She snorts, and that’s one of the things Arthur likes about her: she doesn’t try to sound pretty or sexy, like, ever. She burps and scratches her ass and picks her scabs like a guy. It’s hot. “Okay, well, if your planner is empty or, like, you can <em>pencil me in</em> between appointments, I have an extra ticket to a show tonight. My friend bailed on me. It’s a handful of bands at the Knitting Factory, but Time Again is headlining, and they’re pretty good.” </p>
<p>“Oh, yeah. They’re sick,” Arthur says, even though he cannot name a single Time Again song. He has a mental picture of them, plaid battle pants sort-of punks with giant mohawks and safety pins through their ears like the Casualties or something. Harder than he listens to, but Merlin might have a record or two of theirs. But as <em>soon</em> as he has that thought, his insides wither, curling in on themselves and collapsing, writhing like the knotted-up tails of a rat king. <em>I hate him so much, </em>Arthur thinks, teeth grit in stubborn resignation.</p>
<p>“Sweet. So, you’ll come then? I have a car, I can pick you up,” she says. </p>
<p>At first, it seems sort of insulting that she offered him a ride, and he opens his mouth to decline, but after a moment or two, Arthur decides that it’s not very girl-power of him to turn her down for that reason. Plus, he's not sure he’s fit to drive tonight anyway, if not because of the beer then because of the messy, unbridled rage coursing through him, wave after wave of it, steady and comforting like the tide but probably not very conducive to driving all the way to Hollywood. “Sure, yeah. M’free whenever, I guess,” he says, clenching his jaw, hating the way every word comes out stilted and choppy. He's just so <em>shit</em> at talking to her. He keeps picturing her plucked, elegant eyebrows raised at him in mocking arches. </p>
<p>But if he sounds stupid, Mithian doesn’t say anything about it, and he thinks she would because she’s the sort to call him on his bullshit, to tease him. She still sounds casual, though, the pop and crack of her gum the only sound in his ear until she says, “I’ll come get you now so we can beat the traffic. See you in a bit.” </p>
<p>And then she hangs up, and Arthur sinks to the floor in his seldomly used kitchen, which is all chrome and granite, silver white gray like some frigid winter landscape. Here on the floor, he has a new perspective on the space and notices a dust bunny clinging to the moulding. He stares at it, chewing the inside of his lip and wondering how in the hell he’s gonna seem cool to Mithian tonight when he can barely function all alone in his giant house. </p>
<p>Except he <em>is</em> functioning—he’s functioning just fine. Great, even. Better than great, probably. He's gonna go to a show with a hot girl, and not just <em>any</em> girl, the girl of his <em>dreams. </em>He imagines texting Merlin: <em>wat r u doing 2nite? i’m scoring with mithian at a time again show ;) </em>and how Merlin would probably be so fucking jealous because <em>he’s </em>likely studying in a stuffy library somewhere, taking notes while <em>Lance</em> and <em>Freya</em> hook up behind his back because <em>Lance</em> is handsomer than Merlin is. Lance doesn’t have those big, goofy ears, he isn't rail-thin and awkward, he’s not snow-pale and likely doesn’t <em>burn </em>to a pink crisp after one second outside. But Arthur doesn't text Merlin, of course, because he’s trying not to think of him at all. Not his bones, not his pallor, not the way his eyes glitter in crystalline, conspiratorial glee whenever he catches Arthur stumbling over talking to a girl. <em>I hate him so much, </em>Arthur thinks as he thumbs over the screen of his phone, over the capital <em>M </em>and all its subsequent shorter letters, stacked up and blocky with pixels, softer the wetter his eyes get, the more he blinks and blinks, like his lashes can hold back a storm if he just beats them fast enough. </p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>2005</p>
<p>
  <em>Kissing Merlin becomes a regular thing. </em>
</p>
<p><em>They make out all summer long, rolling in the sand at beach bonfires, on the makeshift dance floor at house parties, in the mosh pit at shows, in the back row of the empty theater when they go see </em>Revenge of the Sith <em>because it’s so fucking bad and boring and stupid and embarrassing that even if there are no girls to impress, sucking Merlin’s tongue is still a better pastime than watching Obi Wan Kenobi ride a CGI lizard. </em></p>
<p><em>They get asked if they’re bisexual a lot, and even though Arthur’s pretty sure he isn’t</em> <em>(and doesn’t even really know what that </em>means<em>, if he’s honest),</em> <em>it seems to be some magic fucking word that excuses what they’re doing, nudging it neatly from the category of “gay” and into “hot.” He’s not sure how it works, but he’s not complaining, and Merlin isn’t either, so. They keep it up without any serious consequence. </em></p>
<p><em>After all, it’s surprisingly effective at making girls pay attention to them. It feels like cheating every time, like it </em>shouldn’t <em>work, but it </em>does. <em>Even if they don’t get any numbers at the end of the night or never kiss anyone but each other, they still get </em>looked<em> at, </em>talked<em> to, </em>fawned <em>over</em>. <em>And hell, if Arthur leaves a party having had a pretty girl give him a back rub and play with his hair and tell him how cute he is for being bisexual, then it’s a night well spent as far as he’s concerned. Sometimes he worries the girls will figure out they’re just joking, faking it for the metaphorical camera, but luckily every time he kisses Merlin, the world melts away into beer-fizzy nothingness, and he forgets that he’s worried somewhere between the gap behind his own crooked incisor and the prodding slick tip of Merlin’s tongue. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>As the school year draws closer, Arthur wonders if the setup will outlast the summer and suspects that, come September, Merlin will decide it’s too weird and quit on him, but. They’re currently at a homecoming party to celebrate the homecoming game they most definitely didn’t go to, making out drunkenly in a hallway, so maybe not. Arthur’s not sure anyone is watching them, and he hasn’t even noticed any girl in particular he’d like a back rub or a hair pet from, but it still feels like a triumph to hold Merlin up against the wall and bite his lower lip until he pulls back in a fit of breathless laughter, stumbling and bright-eyed and pink-cheeked and—if he were a girl—pretty. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Stop,” he mumbles through a lopsided grin, making a fist in Arthur’s hair and holding him back even as he dives forward again, snapping at the humid air between their faces. The party smells like cigarettes and Claire’s spray-on perfume, and Arthur would rather suck in the comforting, boozy huff of Merlin’s breath, so he whines, twisting against the pressure. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Why?” he slurs, deliberately stepping on Merlin’s foot, crushing the scuffed, sharpie-emblazoned toe of his Converse with his own. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Because,” Merlin says, digging painted nails into his scalp, gaze flashing dark and sincere for a moment as it locks on Arthur. “I’m getting hard.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur’s stomach swoops, but he tries to keep his face impassive anyway, studying Merlin with hazy eyes. This happens sometimes—the getting hard thing. With both of them. He figures it’s a normal part of making out, they’re teenage boys, so of course their bodies are gonna get confused and react accordingly. He tries not to worry about it too much, tries not to overthink when he’s pressed flush against Merlin to feel their erections rutting together through layers of tight denim, or when he's alone in his own bed at night remembering what it felt like, hard again in his own palm, the line of his shaft burning in the junction between his thumb and forefinger before he tightens into a fist. It’s normal, he thinks. It doesn't mean anything, save for the obvious and unalterable fact that he has a body. “I don’t care,” he says, dropping his head and digging his brow into Merlin’s sternum. He sounds like a petulant child, even to himself, and it makes him frown there in the hidden folds of black cotton. “Do you?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Merlin cards fingers through Arthur’s hair, smooths his cowlick over and over again before drumming down to the space between his shoulder blades. It’s a back rub, a hair pet, and Arthur flatlines into the security of it, inhaling Merlin’s detergent. “No,” he says eventually. “Not really, just—I guess when we’re, like. Out here. In public.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>That makes sense, Arthur decides. That Merlin would not want anyone else witnessing his dick getting hard, especially from kissing Arthur. Few people understand the delicate, advanced, </em>brilliant<em> nuance of this situation, how many layers there are to balance when you are making out with your best friend for attention. He nods sagely and peels back. “Totally,” he says, brow knit as he nods. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>And so they end up in in someone’s room with the door locked, hooking up on a fucking waterbed. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur feels lost at sea as he kisses Merlin on the unsteady mattress, stuck on a ship in the middle of a storm while Moby-Dick tosses them to and fro in a white, beer-frothy wreck of waves. If they’re still long enough, the undulation almost stops, but inevitably, one of them shifts and grinds into the other, or rolls onto his hands and knees, and the rocking wobbles resume as they collapse into a heap of giggles. “How the fuck do people sleep on these stupid things?!” Arthur snaps through gales of breathless laugher, punching the bed so it ripples under them all over again. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Merlin snorts. “They must be a heavy sleeper. Or, like, uh, a sailor. A fisherman.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>“Or fisher</em>woman, <em>Merlin, don’t be sexist,” Arthur scolds, bracketing Merlin in between his elbows. Now that they’re not kissing and they’re definitely alone, it seems weird to catch his mouth again, even though he wants to, is staring at the soft pink peaks of Merlin’s smiling upper lip and wavering, mouth flooded. Sometimes he forgets other things exist beside Merlin’s mouth, that there’s shit he needs to consider before he just bites it. He stops himself and rolls off, snuggling up beside Merlin instead so that their sides are pressed flush, legs tangled. “Are you still hard?” he ventures. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“No, the bed ruined it,” Merlin slurs, sounding genuinely sad about the state of his dick, which is funny because just a minute ago, out in the hall, it was a problem. “I have a little weed, though, want to roll it up and smoke it?” Merlin asks then, fishing out a tiny plastic baggie from the pocket of his jeans and waving it clumsily in Arthur’s face. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“Yes. Gimme that,” he says, snatching it. “I, unlike you, </em>can<em> roll a joint drunk. You can barely roll a joint sober.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Merlin makes a face at him, something between offense and incredulity. “Well, you—you can barely smoke a joint without thinking the cops are aliens.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Dude,” Arthur says, rolling onto his stomach and grabbing a book from on top of the headboard as the mattress seesaws beneath him. It’s some zombie book, and he wrinkles his nose at it before narrowing his eyes and meticulously emptying out the baggie of weed into a gum-wrapper he found in his pocket. “That was, like. Two whole years ago.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Still happened,” Merlin says smugly, trying to scramble up into a sitting position and instead just collapsing nearly on top of Arthur as the bed wobbles dramatically. Arthur catches the book in time, lifting it up so that he doesn’t dump a shit ton of little weed particles in some stranger’s pilling SpongeBob sheets. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“Merlin, you are an </em>absolute <em>idiot</em>,”<em> he deadpans,</em> <em>elbowing him hard enough that it probably smarts a bit but subtly enough that the mattress doesn’t buck them off. “Do </em>not<em> disturb the waterbed while I’m rolling the fucking joint. Obviously. Hold absolutely still, or I </em>will<em> smoke this whole thing without you.” </em></p>
<p><em>It’s a mistake, though, telling him that because Merlin’s burning face is pressed into Arthur’s neck, his lips parted ever so slightly over the speeding thud of his pulse as he freezes in place. It’s very distracting, and Arthur sweats as he rolls the paper up neatly, trying to keep his hands from shaking as he twists off the end. “You are lucky I’m so good at everything because you’re really so spectacularly </em>bad<em> at everything, it almost loops back around to being impressive.” </em></p>
<p><em>“Except kissing?” Merlin murmurs, right there against Arthur’s blood, which races ahead nervously, giving him away. “I don’t think m’too bad at kissing. You don’t have any complaints about that, do you,” he states it like it’s not a question, and Arthur’s heart goes fucking crazy in his chest. He doesn’t want to </em>talk<em> about this. Not while they’re alone. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“Don’t be stupid,” he snaps eventually, because it means nothing, says nothing, reveals nothing. Then he rips away with the completed joint, sticking it between his own lips as he swats Merlin in the head with the zombie book. “Give me the lighter.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>Merlin does, and Arthur lights up, taking a long, slow, sticky drag before he coughs. It’s not particularly good weed, it smells like burnt toast and roadkill possum, but when you’re seventeen, </em>any<em> weed is good weed, especially if your dad is selectively strict. Arthur inhales again before passing it off to Merlin, their fingers briefly touching in the exchange. </em></p>
<p><em>They trade it back and forth a few more times, but eventually Arthur quits, sleepy as he’s cut adrift in the waterbed ocean, too crossfaded to reach for the joint at all. Instead, he just watches Merlin smoke it, watches the way it rests on his plush lower lip, the way his cheeks hollow out in each inhalation, the way his eyes get hazy and bloodshot and half-lidded. And the thing is—Arthur </em>really<em> wants to kiss him again. He wants to suck the smoke from his lungs, wants to lick over his teeth, the roof of his mouth, wants to hold his narrow jaw steady between thumb and forefinger and really slow it down. Most of the time when they make out, it’s frantic with movement, roaming hands, clicking teeth, spit-slick and messy. But Arthur’s pretty sure he could do a better job than that, if Merlin would let him. He could make it </em>really<em> good, not just fake good. He could make Merlin hard again, maybe. If that was something he was allowed to do in this universe. </em></p>
<p><em>He looks away, tearing his gaze back up to the ceiling where there’s a poster of Carmen Electra, who gazes balefully down at him with smokey eyes. The truth is, he can’t kiss Merlin right now, not when there’s no one to watch them, no girls to catcall or football players to gag. </em>Just because<em> isn’t a good enough reason to make out with your best friend, no matter how drunk you are, and Arthur knows that. But it sticks in his chest like nicotine tar, aches with every shuddering breath he sucks in. “What are you thinking about?” Merlin asks softly, reaching for his arm and brushing clumsy fingers from his elbow to his wrist. Arthur’s skin tingles, and he would roll away, but he doesn't want to upset the bed, so he doesn’t. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“How Carmen Electra is hot,” he lies, pointing at the poster. </em>
</p>
<p><em>Merlin snorts and puts the joint out on his shoe. “Okay,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that Arthur can’t read, can’t make sense of. Something almost </em>mad. <em>Something knowing. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur swallows thickly, and his throat clicks. “Come up with any band names?” he asks then, because talking about their theoretical band is his favorite topic to deflect with. “Any that don’t suck, I mean,” he adds, shooting a forced grin at Merlin. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“My band names are </em>amazing, <em>you just have terrible taste,” Merlin fires back, a lazy smile tilting up the corner of his mouth. “You’re not smart enough to recognize a </em>truly<em> catchy band name.” </em></p>
<p><em>“Whatever,” Arthur mumbles. He shimmies up the bed an inch or so, not </em>away <em>from Merlin but </em>higher up <em>so that his mouth isn’t in Arthur’s line of vision anymore, tempting him to look and think stupid, silly, impractical, </em>totally insane<em> things. “We’ll agree on a name eventually, and it’ll be sick and look sick on a shirt.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“And on our album art. Which Morgana will do.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>“Fine,” Arthur agrees, since Morgana’s one redeeming feature </em>is<em> that she’s a very good artist. “And we’ll play shows locally, first, to build up a small fan base.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“Mmhm. Until someone decides to take us on tour.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“And then we’ll get out of this shitty little town.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>Merlin laughs, and Arthur realizes he’s </em>still<em> looking at his lips, even after moving, so he forces himself to stare at Carmen Electra instead, at her highlights, her bare stomach, her red heels. She’s leaning against a Coke machine wearing a macrame bikini or something, and Arthur wonders if macrame is supposed to be sexy. “Arthur, we live in LA. I dunno if this constitutes as a shitty little town,” Merlin reminds him. </em></p>
<p><em>Arthur reaches down and pinches Merlin’s side. “We live in the </em>Valley<em> in a </em>shitty suburb. <em>It’s not LA, it’s LA’s armpit. Its hemorrhoid. It counts. </em>Constitutes, <em>whatever you said,” he’s quiet for a moment before adding, “You know, sometimes I think you just use big words to try and convince me you’re smart.” </em></p>
<p><em>“I don’t need to </em>convince you,” <em>Merlin mumbles, swatting his hand away. “You know I’m smart no matter what you say, s’why you copy my homework and let me write the introduction paragraphs to your essays. S’why m’gonna do the finances for band stuff.” </em></p>
<p><em>“</em>No, <em>that’s because I hate math. I’m good at it, I just hate it,” Arthur rebukes. He’s about to come up with an excuse for the homework and the essay stuff, but instead he yawns. He’s stupidly tired, his eyes heavy, words slurred, mind static-buzzing and dulled around the edges with weed and beer. He tries to roll </em>away<em> from Merlin, but the waterbed just keeps swallowing him up, dragging him down, and he ends up rolling </em>toward<em> him again instead. Merlin doesn’t say anything, though, he just rolls over and fits the curve of his spine to Arthur’s chest, nestled there so that Arthur is curled around him easily, their bodies notching together like measuring spoons. Without thinking about it too much, Arthur reflexively hooks an arm around Merlin’s hip, pressing his face into his hair, which smells like other people’s cigarettes over the faintest memory of Merlin’s shampoo. But at least it’s dark here. At least Arthur doesn’t have to look at Merlin’s </em>lips <em>because the whole of his vision is blocked out conveniently by his big head. “M’gonna fall asleep,” Arthur warns. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Merlin doesn’t reply, he only twitches, breath coming out hot and even on the back of Arthur’s hand. Either he’s already passed out or else he can’t hear Arthur through his mouthful of hair, but it doesn't matter because he’s not pulling away. He’s getting heavy, melting into Arthur like a crayon left on the sidewalk in the sun. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur forces himself to stay awake a little longer, just so that he can lie here and pretend he’s on a raft in the middle of a giant lake with no one around for miles, instead of in some stranger’s waterbed, Carmen Electra’s dead poster-eyes staring down at them, bearing witness to this unwitnessable thing. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. LIKE VIOLENCE YOU KILL ME FOREVER AND AFTER</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I HATE driving in Hollywood but this actually made me miss it a little. Its been a weird year.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2008 </p>
<p>Mithian drives Arthur to Hollywood, and they make awkward small talk here and there, but it isn’t the worst because mostly she blasts the Distillers so loudly that he wouldn't be heard even if he <em>did</em> have something decent to stay. Instead, he gazes out the window at the endless blur of carwashes and burrito joints and theaters as they draw closer to Sunset, then at the stars on the Walk of Fame, all pink-flecked and grimy and unglamorous once they finally get there. Eventually she pulls into an Albertsons a few blocks from where they need to be and kills the engine. “We can get free parking here,” she announces, shooting him a grin. “I have a friend in the bakery department who covers me when I’m seeing a show out this way.” </p>
<p>“That’s—wow. Cool,” Arthur coughs, wishing <em>he</em> had a friend in the bakery department of a conveniently located grocery store so <em>he</em> could get <em>his</em> friends free parking for shows. Mithian is so effortlessly cool, it almost makes him angry. It at least sparks some deep-seated urge to <em>compete</em> inside him, and he stifles the pull to one-up her because he <em>knows</em> that’s an irritating trait. Merlin has told him so at least a hundred times. </p>
<p>But he’s not thinking about Merlin, not right now. He’s in a car with a pretty girl, and they’re driving to Hollywood to see a sick band, and all is, or should be, right in the world. He tries his hardest to believe it. </p>
<p>They buy some candy and sit on the curb until their tongues get stained from eating so many Airheads. Then Mithian gets out two boards from her trunk, and while the one she tosses Arthur to use is a little squirrelly, he still manages to ollie off a railing, and she high-fives him so hard after the fact that his hand stings from the resounding smack, and it’s <em>satisfying, </em>the way it sticks on his skin. They skate around in aimless circles for a few hours, talking about music and sharing Skittles, and Arthur <em>really, </em>really wishes he <em>liked </em>Mithian the way he should. He <em>does</em> like her, actually. Or he <em>would </em>like her, if he wasn’t so distracted by the bubble of hurt still expanding between his lungs with every breath. It was easy to ignore the feeling when he was alone and could be <em>mad</em> at Merlin, but when he’s just hanging out doing other stuff, the pain creeps up on him like sensation in a phantom limb, unexpected and impossible to help. It fucking sucks, so he tries his hardest to ignore it, to drown it in sugar, to choke it silent like every Red Vine is a noose. </p>
<p>Dusk slowly creeps up on them, lavender-pink like cotton candy but dirty-gutter cotton candy with asphalt bits in it because everything is smog-crusted and brown-tinted in LA, even the pretty stuff like sunsets. The colors blend and fade to streaked and starless blue eventually, and as they walk to the venue, Arthur tries his very hardest not to think of Merlin. It’s tough, though, because he’s seen six hundred shows at the Knitting Factory with Merlin, he’s walked this exact path with Merlin on countless evenings, the smell of bacon-wrapped hotdogs and fried onions from those ever-tempting carts thick and greasy in the air. Arthur frowns and keeps his mind carefully blank as Mithian skates ahead of him, weaving between groups of tourists, her hair a dark smudge against the glitter of the night. </p>
<p>Once they’re inside, the pressure ebbs a bit. It’s loud and smoky, his shoes are glowing in the purple-tinted lighting, and that’s distracting enough that he actually settles into watching the band set up and tune. It’s also too loud to <em>talk</em>, so Arthur is officially off the hook in terms of thinking of things to say to Mithian and actually <em>saying</em> them without sounding stupid. </p>
<p>The opener starts with heavy chugging guitars, making the floor surge in sudden energy. A tiny pit opens up, so he and Mithian are pushed to the side, and he watches with his fist held out protectively, gaze wary. On a different night, he might join in, jump around, throw some punches, but it feels <em>weird</em> when he’s here without—without his usual company. Plus, the guys slamming around are bigger than him, all battle jackets and egg-white-crisp hair. They’re also <em>old</em>, like, thirty, so Arthur stoically bobs his head and watches the band instead, even though they basically sound like someone screaming along with a trash compactor, and he’s not into it at all. </p>
<p>The first time someone knocks into him, he ignores it. He’s at a punk show, after all, it happens. It was sort of harder and rougher and meaner than he’s used to, but whatever. He tries not to take it personally. </p>
<p>But then it happens again, and he nearly hits the ground with the force of impact before he rights himself, ears ringing. “Hey, watch it,” he says, shoving the guy back into the pit, wrinkling his nose at the feel of sweat-slick leather under his palm. It's gross. At the shows <em>he</em> goes to, hardly anyone wears leather. And the pits are different—everyone jumps and runs in a circle and climbs over each other and sings the lyrics, but they don’t just <em>hurl their whole giant fucking bodies</em> into other people. Leather-punks are rude, Arthur decides, narrowing his eyes at the old fucking dude and his tattooed old-man skin. </p>
<p>“Watch what, bro?” the guy spits back, punching Arthur in the arm none too gently. “If you’re gonna be a little pussy bitch, go stand with the merch girls in the back.” </p>
<p>And just like that, the bubble of hurt in Arthur’s chest quite suddenly ruptures, and all the rage behind it comes flooding in like blood, clouding his vision in a hazy, staticky red. He can’t hear. He can’t think. <em>I hate him so much</em> echoes inside his head, faintly like an afterthought, and before he even realizes it, he’s lunging toward the guy, and they’re both toppling into concrete, floor over ceiling, boot over sneaker. </p>
<p>It’s over before it even starts. Arthur’s knuckles make contact for a sharp, fleeting second, and then he’s on his back with his balled fist stinging, blood pouring from his nose and all over his shirt as Mithian hauls the old guy off, screaming at them both. </p>
<p>Security scrapes him off the floor and ushers him out like a criminal, his arms pinned behind his back as he spits out a thick, black, coppery mouthful. “Cool off, kid,” the security guard says, squeezing his shoulder and depositing him on the curb. It’s a half-hearted scolding more than anything else, probably because Arthur is a white guy who still looks like a teenager, which they’ve decided means that he’s not a real threat. “If you come back, we’ll call the cops.” </p>
<p><em>Fuck you,</em> Arthur wants to say, but his face hurts too much to talk, and the anger sort of drained out of him on the trip from the pit to the sidewalk anyway. He’s just left with the adrenaline jitters, his throat tight and his hands in tremor as he sits there sniffling blood, blinking back tears, wondering what Merlin or Hunith or, like, his own dead <em>mother</em> would think of him, knowing that he just got kicked out of a show for <em>fighting. </em></p>
<p>He’s trying to write his own name in blood spatters from his nose when Mithian appears, hands shoved in the pocket of her tattered black denim skirt. “I tried to talk them into letting you back in, but no go,” she says as she gingerly sits down next to him at a wary distance, like he’s a venomous snake that might strike or something. It makes him feel shitty, dirty. “Sorry.” </p>
<p>“No,” Arthur mumbles, wiping his upper lip on his sleeve. “<em>I’m</em> sorry. This is my fucking fault, I dunno what happened, I just—I don’t know. M’an asshole.” </p>
<p>Mithian crosses her arms and lays them over her knees, gazing out into the street, the Hollywood traffic packed in bumper to bumper, headlights and tail lights and the endless stink of exhaust bleeding through the haze of adrenaline still clinging to Arthur like wet cellophane. “Arthur, it’s fine,” she eventually murmurs without looking at him, absently examining the split, dye-damaged ends of her hair. “That guy was a douche. He deserved it.” </p>
<p>Arthur scoffs. “Deserved <em>what? </em>I barely got a punch in.” </p>
<p>He risks looking at Mithian to gauge her reaction, which is a lopsided smile that doesn’t <em>quite </em>meet her eyes. “I thought you did okay,” she offers. Then her mouth falters, flattening out into a firm line as she sits in silence, chewing the inside of her lip. “So, like. What’s going on?” she asks after a long, pregnant pause. “I can tell you’re thinking about someone else,” she adds then, and just like that, he’s been caught. </p>
<p>It crashes over Arthur’s head like ice water, making his heart stop before it races, throat constricting and blood thudding in his ears with deafening force. He makes himself swallow. “Um,” he says. </p>
<p>“Hey, it’s okay. S’not like I’m pissed about it or anything, just. If you need to talk, I’ll listen,” she says, finally reaching out and touching him. It’s a weird moment, her knuckles brushing against his outer arm, bro-zone chaste and so careful that it makes him feel like a failure. Like he wrecked his future chances with his future wife. </p>
<p>Then a muted panic sets in as he realizes he has to, like. Actually answer. Because he <em>is</em> thinking about someone else, obviously, but not in the way she thinks he is, of course. Not a <em>girl.</em> “It’s a girl,” he eventually forces out, voice clipped and nervous over the lie. He just thinks it’s easier to tell her <em>this</em> than the truth, which is stupid and weird and sounds suspiciously gay on paper. <em>I’m just mad about how I was friend-dumped by my best bro since the sixth grade who is objectively less cool and hot than me, making it especially embarrassing. Thinking about how he ditched me for college but drew it out for months before he called me and told me he didn’t want me anymore. Thinking about how much it hurts. Or, like, actively </em>not<em> thinking about that part. </em>It’s just—it’s not something Arthur can say <em>out loud. </em>Especially not to Mithian. But if he spins it like a <em>real</em> break up, maybe that will smooth out the ripples in the story, tie off the ugly ends. “She, uh. Went to school, and we said we’d keep it long distance, but she actually broke up with me, so. Yeah. Sucks.” </p>
<p>Mithian nods sagely, as if things are exactly as she suspected. “I see,” she says, playing with her lip ring for a few seconds, chewing before sucking the titanium flash of it into her mouth. “Well, her loss, honestly. If she’s not here for you, other people are.” </p>
<p>She looks at him then, dark eyes lined in darker liner flashing with a split-second of vulnerability. It makes Arthur’s stomach swoop, to know Mithian might be referring to herself as the implied surrogate. For a second, he imagines replacing Merlin with her: hundreds of days like today, skating with Mithian, smoking with her, moshing with her, going to stupid parties with her, lying in bed listening to records with her. Mithian as his best friend instead of his girlfriend, like he’s always imagined her. Except it’s confusing because then he imagines <em>kissing</em> her, not girlfriend-kissing but kissing-kissing, like how he kisses Merlin, and then he’s forced to remember that he <em>kisses Merlin, </em>and everything floods together sticky and terrible, like all the flavors of snow-cone syrup melting into the bottom of a cardboard cup, too saccharine and artificial to drink. He shakes his head. </p>
<p>“Yeah, but, like. What if she was...I dunno. The <em>one?”</em> he asks, thinking it’s a crazy thing to say about Merlin, even if it doesn’t feel like a lie. But the thing is, Merlin was his <em>best friend. </em>That shit is eternal, Arthur thinks. He’s spent years imagining them as old dudes together, in side-by-side rocking chairs while their kids’s kids played on the lawn and their faceless, nameless wives chit-chatted inside or whatever. “I guess it just seemed like a forever deal,” he admits. </p>
<p>Mithian actually sort of laughs at him before stifling it with her fist when he shoots her a look, eyes deer-wide and probably, like, <em>wounded</em> or something because Arthur is not used to being <em>mocked</em> when he’s trying his hardest to be serious. “I’m sorry,” she says, coughing, eyes glittering. “I just! We’re so <em>young, </em>dude, you’re what, nineteen?” </p>
<p>“Twenty,” he grumbles. Merlin is nineteen, and so is she, and they <em>all</em> graduated last year, so it makes sense she’d guess that number, but of course Mithian doesn't know that he was held back in the third grade. He conveniently omits it from all his oral life histories. “My fake ID says 22.” </p>
<p>“Whatever,” she says, not pressing on the matter. “You can’t <em>possibly</em> know a girl is <em>the one</em> when you’re twenty. I don’t know <em>shit</em> right now, I’m messing up all the time, and that’s fine. You <em>miss</em> her, and maybe your heart is a little broken, but you’re still basically a kid<em>, </em>Arthur. You’ll recover. In the meantime, you should have <em>fun. </em>So let’s do something fun!”</p>
<p>Arthur tugs at his shoelaces, only just realizing that they’re crusted in blood from his nose, which is no longer dripping. It only sort of aches now, distantly like a bruise. “What, something fun like go to a show? We tried <em>that</em>, and I fucked it up,” he reminds her. </p>
<p>“Fuck the show,” Mithian says easily, waving her hand through the air and tugging her board from her half-zipped backpack. “That opener sucked anyway. Let’s go…I dunno. Night hiking. Or to the beach. Or to a 24-hour diner. Or all three.” Then she stands and offers him a hand, hauling him to unsteady feet when he takes it. “The night is young, just like you,” she adds with a conspiratorial grin. “Fuck the show and fuck that college girl.” </p>
<p>Arthur wavers for a moment, feeling like he’s stuck at a crossroads, choked by his own lie. He’s not sure she’d be offering these same options if she knew that there <em>wasn’t</em> a girl. That Arthur actually just misses his best friend, who he also kisses, and that he doesn’t know how to reconcile those truths in any other way, save for lying through his teeth about them and trying to kick some guy’s ass only to get his own ass kicked instead. There’s nothing cute or teen movie or Blink-182 song about what’s really going on—he’s just giving her the palatable version, the one that makes sense. The version she can fit into. </p>
<p>But then he thinks about the smell of pine in the moonlight, the crash of the ocean on the fine white sand at Manhattan Beach, and a greasy plate of fries and decides maybe something like that could be good for him. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s go.” </p>
<p>They drive. </p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>2002 </p>
<p>
  <em>Somewhere amid the tar-sticky black void of middle school, Arthur decides that Merlin has a crush on Morgana. </em>
</p>
<p><em>He doesn’t have any evidence to support his thesis. </em>He’s<em> not even sure why he got so fixated on it, only that he wakes up one morning and arbitrarily decides it’s a good idea to tease Merlin relentlessly about it because it will be funny, and he’s probably right. After all, Merlin likes goth bands more than Arthur does, and Morgana is a goth, so it’s probably a match made in heaven. If Merlin doesn’t already like her, he </em>will<em> when Arthur’s done with him. </em></p>
<p><em>At first, Arthur just throws in casual barbs about it during lunch or class. They’re reading </em>Romeo and Juliet <em>in English, so Arthur makes a kissy face at Merlin and leans over onto his desk when their teacher isn't looking to whisper, “Bet you wish Morgana would drink poison for you, huh?” </em></p>
<p><em>Merlin stares at him incredulously, the pale blue of his eyes flashing, which Arthur decides is suspect and probably means he </em>loves <em>her. “What?!” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“You love her,” Arthur murmurs smugly. “You write her name in your notebook.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>Merlin snatches his binder up and hugs it close to his chest, like it contains incriminating secrets etched in smudgy graphite. </em>Morgana Pendragon <em>in swirly hearts. “No, I don’t. What are you even talking about?” Merlin snarls under his breath. </em></p>
<p><em>It’s loud enough that their teacher turns around to scold them both, and Arthur knows he's </em>on<em> to something, so he doesn’t let it go. He tells Morgana. “Merlin likes you,” he says one evening when he’s decided to come bother her in her incense-smoky room. She hasn’t willingly hung out with him since she started high school, so if he wants to annoy her, he actually has to </em>seek her out. </p>
<p>“<em>Merlin?!” she sneers, dropping her book to her lap and curling her lip at him. “I fucking hope not.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“Yeah, he totally does,” Arthur insists, climbing onto Morgana’s bed without kicking his shoes off because he knows she’ll fucking hate it. Sure enough, she whimpers, making a face as she stares at his dirty Vans on her violet comforter. “It makes sense. You both have black hair. He likes goth stuff. He listens to AFI,” Arthur counts off. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Morgana makes a big show of putting her book up again and pretending to read. “AFI hasn’t released a goth track since their ‘Hanging Garden’ cover,” she deadpans. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“Whatever,” he says, already over it and well into more complex scheming because he’s officially on a mission to get his best friend and his sister to fall in love. He doesn’t care that neither one of them seem interested—they </em>are. <em>They’re just pretending not to be because they’re stupid and have failed to realize what a cute couple they would make, all dark and brooding and shit. It’s perfect. He spends a few days fantasizing about the faraway future when they’re already married, which means Merlin can come on family vacations with the Pendragons and have a stocking with his name embroidered on it hanging over the mantle at Christmas time, and Hunith and Morgana and whatever girl Arthur marries can go on wine-tasting tours during the spring while Merlin and Arthur camp in Appalachia without their cellphones and, like, find themselves in the wilderness like real men or whatever. It’s a great plan, he thinks. He’s always wanted to go fishing with Merlin, even though he has no idea how to fish. </em></p>
<p><em>The next time Merlin comes over after school, Arthur makes sure they hang out with Morgana, even if she and her friend Gwen </em>clearly<em> want to be alone and are super annoyed that they crashed their girl-stuff and Chinese takeout party. Gwen at least is being polite about it and feigning interest in the patches safety-pinned to Melin’s backpack, asking him sweetly about each one while Morgana shoots </em>daggers<em> from her eyes at Arthur as he eats her chow mein. But he can weather the worst his sister has to offer—she won’t actually punch him in front of Gwen, who’s some sort of moony wow-wow hippie and believes in peace and shit. “Hey,” he says eventually, when there’s a lull in Gwen and Merlin’s forced conversation. “Merlin, you like AFI’s cover of ‘The Hanging Garden,’ right?” he says without looking away from Morgana’s cold glare. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Merlin’s eyes flicker up, brow furrowed in nervous confusion. “Um,” he says. “Yeah? S’a good cover. Why?” he mumbles, because he's terrible at flirting and fails to see all the ways in which Arthur is a mastermind with a brilliant plan that he’s setting into motion. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur wants to scream, but instead he sighs, deciding that the best way to go about this is perhaps a more direct approach. “Gwen!” he says, clapping his hands together and startling everyone. “I have something to show you, will you kindly accompany me to the kitchen?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“What?! Why? What’s in the kitchen?!” Morgana snaps. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“Nothing of </em>your<em> concern,” he tells her, dragging Gwen up and ushering her out into the hallway while Morgana and Merlin scramble to follow them. He shuts them in before they make it to the door, though, latching it using the barrel slide locks his dad installed a few years ago when he went through his most overprotective and paranoid phase. Morgana screams at him, slamming her fist on the door so violently that it rattles on its hinges. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Gwen stares. “Why are we leaving them in there?!” she asks. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“It’s for their own good,” Arthur tells her with authority, steering her into the kitchen. “Have a soda with me or something? They’ll be besties by the time we’re done.” She studies him over the rim of the Diet Coke can he shoves into her hand, eyes dark and narrowed and not half as warm as they usually are. “</em>What?!” <em>he finally asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?” </em></p>
<p><em>“If you want to be alone with me, Arthur, there have to be better ways than locking Morgana and Merlin up in her room,” she eventually says, and it’s </em>so condescending<em> that Arthur isn’t even mad. He feels like a </em>teacher<em> just yelled at him or something, and he reels back, staring at Gwen with wide eyes. </em></p>
<p><em>“Be alone with </em>you?! <em>I don’t—it’s not—,” then he cuts himself off, realizing that he sounds like an asshole. He takes a deep breath, takes a moment to reevaluate the situation before carefully explaining, “Merlin has a crush on Morgana, and I was just being a decent wingman.” </em></p>
<p><em>Gwen makes a face, Coke can dimpling under her newly tightened grip. “Merlin?! Does he really? He told you that?” she sputters, like the thought is positively ridiculous. It’s annoying how no one is on the same very obvious and good page that </em>he’s<em> on about this. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“Well—no,” Arthur admits. “But I know him better than anyone. And I know—”</em>
</p>
<p><em>“Evidently </em>not,” <em>Gwen interrupts with a scoff, and it cuts into Arthur sudden and hot, reminding him of the metal bits of the seatbelts in his father’s BMW that always grow molten in the sun and burn if you sit on them in the summer. He doesn’t like being told he doesn’t know Merlin because of </em>course<em> he does. Merlin is his best friend. “Listen, even if he </em>did<em> like Morgana that way, I can assure you that she doesn’t like </em>him<em> that way. You’re just wasting your time and making her mad and—making </em>me<em> drink this stupid soda I don’t even want,” Gwen says, holding the Diet Coke up to demonstrate before deliberately pouring it into the sink. “Go let them out,” she orders as if he’s a dog, and there’s such firm authority to her voice that it’s sort of a defining moment in Arthur’s regard for Gwen, who he always thought of as some new-agey pushover until right now, when he realizes he’s a little afraid of her and </em>definitely <em>respects her. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>He does as he’s told, and once the door is open, Morgana punches him so hard that he almost throws up noodles, which he supposes is what he deserves. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Later, once Arthur has slunk back to his room with his tail between his legs, Merlin in tow, his nagging curiosity gets the better of him. “So,” he says conversationally from where he’s lying on the floor, strumming his new guitar that he doesn’t know how to play yet, save for random, shitty chords. “Did anything happen?” </em>
</p>
<p><em>“What do you mean?” Merlin asks warily from Arthur’s bed. “Did anything happen when I was </em>locked<em> in Morgana’s room with her?! I fucking hid. It was like being in a wild animal’s cage. I kept thinking, she’s gonna turn on me and tear me to shreds if she can’t get to him.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur frowns. “So no kissing or hand-holding?” </em>
</p>
<p><em>Merlin sighs, sounding very exasperated as he slides down the side of the bed to curl up on the carpet beside Arthur like a cat. He’s gotten longer and knobbier this year, and even though they’re nearly the same height now, he still feels </em>little<em> to Arthur. Like a long, slinky animal he could gather up into his arms and tote around, if he wanted to. “Arthur,” Merlin mumbles, voice very even. “I don’t have a crush on your sister.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“You don’t have to lie to me,” Arthur tells him, even though there’s a little flame of doubt flickering to life in his chest for the first time since he got this notion in his head and ran with it. Maybe he’s wrong after all. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“I’m not </em>lying,” <em>Merlin argues, jabbing a finger between Arthur’s ribs, making him squirm. “I mean, I think Morgana is cool, and we’re friends when she’s not trying to kill you and </em>could<em> kill me by proxy, but, like. I don’t know. She’s your sister. It’s weird.” </em></p>
<p><em>Arthur deflates, an unspeakable sort of disappointment washing over him. He hefts the guitar onto the ground and rolls over on his side to face Merlin. “Are you sure you’re not just convincing yourself she’s out of your league because you’re ugly?” he asks sincerely, even though he doesn’t actually think Merlin is ugly at all. He’s weird looking, that’s for certain, he has big ears and big lips and his cheekbones are </em>so<em> fucking sharp and his chin is </em>so<em> fucking narrow that Arthur spends a lot of time pondering how the physics of his face actually work, but he’s not </em>ugly. <em>He has pretty blue eyes and a smile that clutches deep in the gut to witness, and Morgana thinks Robert </em>Smith<em> is pretty, so, like, it’s not as if she has high standards. </em></p>
<p><em>Merlin flushes and rolls onto his back, making a fist in the front of his shirt. “No,” he says firmly. “I don’t like her like that, s’got nothing to do with how I look, I—where did you even </em>get<em> this idea?” he asks then, gaze flashing to meet Arthur’s for a moment, holding him arrested in ice-blue before releasing him to sweep back up to the ceiling. “You just. It came out of nowhere.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur reaches across the floor to rub at a toothpaste stain on Merlin's sleeve, chewing his lip. “I dunno. I guess I thought it would be cool, if you were, like, officially a part of my family and could go on vacation with us and stuff. And I think you and Morgana have things in common. I don’t know.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Merlin takes a deep breath and shifts closer to Arthur along the carpet, so the outer lines of their thighs press together, solid and reassuring. “I have more in common with you,” he says darkly. </em>
</p>
<p><em>Arthur snorts. “Yeah, sure. But—,” and he doesn’t know where to go after that, not really. Of course he and Merlin have more in common, they’re best friends, but that doesn’t </em>mean<em> anything in the long run. Being best friends with a guy isn’t an indelible thing, like a marriage. You don’t take a vow, there are no rings. Arthur isn't sure his father, who installs outside locks on his kids’ doors and parks his BMW in the sun, will agree to take Arthur’s best friend on family vacations. But he </em>would<em> if it was his daughter’s serious boyfriend. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur is about to further argue the point when Merlin lays cool fingers on his wrists and firmly states, “I don’t like your sister.” He says it very seriously, like it is a vow, or a ring, and it makes Arthur’s insides coil up hotly. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The next sigh comes out in a dramatic huff. “Okay but. Wouldn’t it be cool if you could come to Costa Rica with us this summer? And every summer?” Arthur offers. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Yeah, it would be cool,” Merlin agrees with a wobbly half-smile. “But, like. Do you realize that even if I didn’t go to Costa Rica with you, I’m still—I’m your friend. M’not going anywhere. I don’t need to fucking marry into your family in order for you to, uh. Keep me around.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur isn't sure why it makes his throat so tight, but it does. He rolls over and heavily drapes his arm over Merlin’s neck, deadweight so he has to shove him off in order to breathe. “You’re sure?” he asks eventually, voice muffled by carpet. “You’re not gonna ditch me?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Promise,” Merlin says, pressing his thumb into the bone of Arthur’s wrist, like a circuit being completed. Electricity passes through them, sparking and igniting, and something lurches in Arthur’s stomach. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He decides to ignore it. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. LET YOUR WAVES CRASH DOWN ON ME</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>some unsolicited facts about the author: </p><p>This story is so heavily based on my own experiences as a teenager. I don't know what y'all were doing but I was sneaking into botanical gardens, cliff jumping, doing questionable shady shit in parks, gay longing, and spending an unhealthy amount of time at Denny's eating breakfast food at 1am. Oh, and kissing my best friend. I was in the Merlin camp of knowing exactly what it meant and hoping they'd catch up and figure it out, though. They didn't (not really) and moved to Canada and broke my heart but hey this is why we write stories, to give ourselves the happy endings we were denied, right? Plus, we're friends now! Its fine! </p><p>anyway every comment on this makes me so happy, it's really nice to know everyone is relating and aching along with these characters! They're going to get what they want, eventually, so just hang on a little longer with me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2008</p><p>Arthur and Mithian end up at the Arboretum in Arcadia, which is, like, a giant outdoor garden thing that’s criminally easy to sneak into. They scale some chain link that isn't even topped off in barbed wire, drop down into a bamboo forest, and wander around for a few minutes only to emerge on a cement walkway winding through a hundred eucalyptus frees. They smell like cough drops and remind Arthur of grade school, which makes him sad. “Sick,” he says anyway, brushing dirt off his jeans and following Mithian as she skates ahead of him, board clacking along the sidewalk. </p><p>“Hear that?” she murmurs, stopping and kicking her board into her hand before grabbing his arm and pointing into the black mess of foliage. He freezes, skin tingling in discomfort beneath the press of her fingers as he listens to the eerie darkness. Then, cutting through the night and making the hair stand up on the back of his neck, he hears it: an inhuman cry, long and mournful and chilling. </p><p>“What the hell is that?!” he asks in a hush, clutching at Mithian, heart pounding. </p><p>She giggles, shoving him off. “A peacock.” </p><p>“You’re shitting me,” he says, certain she’s messing with him, there’s no way that’s a <em>bird. </em>It’s got to be a woman in distress or something. Or else some monster posing as a woman in distress to lure in unsuspecting victims to kill and eat. “It sounds like a lady screaming ‘help.’” </p><p>“It’s a peacock trying to attract a peahen, I promise,” Mithain tells him with a snicker. “Let’s go find one, they’re everywhere here.” </p><p>Sure enough, the Arboretum is, for some fucking reason, <em>crawling</em> with peacocks. They strut around stupidly, blue bodies iridescent in the moonlight unless they’re female, in which case they look like giant brown turkeys with extra tiny heads. Arthur is totally baffled by them, but eventually he gets used to their sad, pitiful shrieking. </p><p>Mithian takes a glow-in-the-dark frisbee out of her backpack and charges it under one of the lights flanking the walkway until it's a muted alien green, then she raises it above her head. “Go long,” she says before sending it sailing through the air. Arthur chases it down until it lands in the Madagascar forest, where a bunch of spiky trees snag at his shirt as he darts between them to pull the frisbee out of some spiny brush. </p><p>They toss it back and forth as they wander, reading the little information plaques and laughing at the more ridiculous-sounding flower names, of which there are many. There’s an entire planter with no flowers at all (they must be a summer-blooming plant or something) but hundreds of tiny labels tied to bare sticks, all emblazoned with the varietal name. Arthur and Mithian stand here for a few minutes picking out the best ones. </p><p>“‘Pixie Series’…sounds like one of those glitter-punk, wanna-be-glam bands,” Mithian says. “Oh, and ‘<em>Monte Negro’</em>…psychobilly trio from East LA.” </p><p>“Yup. And ‘Push Off’ sounds like a hardcore band. Probably normcore, though. They wear khakis on stage,” Arthur counters. “And ‘Claude Shride’ and ‘Terrace City’ are both sort of shoe-gazy emo.” </p><p>“Yes,” Mithian agrees, rubbing her hands together. “But <em>real</em> emo. Like, Dashboard Confessional, American Football, At the Drive In emo and not, like—I shop at Hot Topic and read <em>Twilight </em>and listen to Fall Out Boy emo.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Arthur reflexively agrees, even though he definitely listens to Fall Out Boy and gets his belts from Hot Topic and only knows Dashboard Confessional from the bands she listed, and even then only because Merlin likes them. Otherwise, he would be none the wiser. Mithian definitely knows more about music than him, and it’s sort of hot, at the same time it’s really intimidating. “Catch,” he says, tossing the frisbee ahead of them and away from this not-flower flower garden. Mithian skates after it, catches it mid-air, and whoops into the night alongside a chorus of peacock screams, the pale line of her arm like lightning as she pumps her fist. </p><p>Maybe this is romance, Arthur thinks. But then again, maybe he doesn’t know anything about romance. </p><p>They end up on a sloping lawn facing the street and flanked in groves of trees on two sides, with a huge, rectangular, cement-framed fountain on the other. The pumps are turned off, so the water lies still and pale and glowing, illuminated by the glow of the green lights on the inside and looking for all the world like a swimming pool. Arthur is about to comment on how gross and scuzzy the water probably is when Mithian unceremoniously strips down to her bra and underwear, then climbs right in. </p><p>He gawks at her, both horrified and impressed. “What are you doing!? There are, like. Cars driving by!” </p><p>She cranes her neck around to look at them as she wades in, seemingly unfazed. “Not too many, plus they’re, like, a hundred feet away. They can't see me,” she explains with certainty. Then she beckons with her finger, grin sly and lopsided, skin expansive and pale in this way Arthur decides he can’t look at, so. He decidedly tilts his head back to stare at the sky, where there would be stars if they weren’t in LA, which has no stars, ever. “You’re just. Naked at the Arboretum,” he tells her. “We’re gonna get arrested for breaking and entering <em>and</em> for public indecency.” </p><p>“Not naked,” she says, kicking water at him in a luminescent splash that gets on his jeans. “But I <em>can</em> be if you want.” </p><p>“Please god, no, don’t get naked. Not that you’re not, like. Insanely hot,” he forces out, rubbing his burning face with his palms, words sticky and barbed in this throat. “Just don’t get naked <em>here, </em>right now, in this moment. Please.”</p><p>She laughs at him, the sound of it echoing off concrete. “How about this: if you don’t get in with me, I <em>will</em> take off my bra and flash the next car.” </p><p>And the mere idea is mortifying to Arthur, so he grumbles as he kicks out of his Converse and unbuckles his belt before peeling his skinnies down his thighs, shivering more with nerves than chill, since it’s a pretty balmy night in spite of the occasional breeze. “You’re crazy,” he tells her. </p><p>“Yeah, maybe,” she sing-songs, flicking water at him as he gingerly climbs into the fountain. Just like he thought, the submerged cement is slimy to the touch. There’s probably peacock shit in here. He winces but presses on, unwilling to be called a pussy for the second time tonight and also to be caught sneaking into the Arboretum with a naked girl. “Or maybe you’re just uptight. Anal retentive.” </p><p>“I’m <em>not</em> anal,” he snaps, teeth chattering as he lobs some water at her, making her scramble and shriek and slip before she collapses on her ass into the water, laughing. “Shit, sorry,” he says, trying to help her up before losing purchase and falling right in after her. </p><p>He sputters in the sudden wet, indignant enough to actually tackle her a little. They grapple in the water, Mithian wheezing with laughter until he's helpless to do anything but follow suit, dissolving into giggles and too weak to hang on to her anymore. He lets go, and she splashes him. </p><p>“See! Lighten up. It’s <em>fun</em>. We’re kids, and we’re swimming in a fountain at the botanical gardens we snuck into. It’s glamorous,” Mithian says from where she’s sitting in the water, which comes up to her waist. Her skin is pebbled in gooseflesh, dripping and pale in the moonlight, and his <em>hands </em>were just on that a second ago, he realizes, and god—she’s so fucking beautiful. Arthur should be trying to kiss her or something. He should be staring. But instead, all he can think about is peacock shit and how he’s probably covered in tiny microscopic particles of it. He wonders, for the hundredth time, if there is something wrong with him. If he’s broken. </p><p>“Hard to have <em>fun</em> when you’re freezing cold,” he forces out through the rattle of his teeth. “But I <em>will</em> give you points for creativity.” </p><p>“I’ll take them,” she says lightly, blowing him a kiss before struggling to stand and clawing her way up the side, bare feet leaving streaks in the algae clinging to the wall. Once she’s free, she starfishes across a cement platform, hair strewn about her like a wet black halo, bra clinging to her erect nipples. Arthur stays in the gross water, which is too cold for his dick to get hard—he’s pretty sure she would laugh at him if that happened. But then the breeze comes back, and Arthur is shivering so violently that he’s worried he’ll die of hypothermia, so he climbs up beside her and spreads out a generous distance away so as not to give her any ideas. </p><p>“It smells like horse shit,” he observes, heart pounding in his chest from the exertion of hauling himself up the wall.</p><p>“There’s a race track right down the street, with probably a billion horses in the stables, shitting right now, as we speak,” Mithian explains. “So you, my friend, are right on the money.” </p><p>“Oh,” he says, body seizing up as she casually rolls closer to him, their slick skin sliding together. It feels weirder without the guise of wrestling, intimate and terrifying. “That makes sense.” </p><p>She crosses their ankles into a sloppy X, like the one the security at the Knitting Factory drew onto the backs of their hands to mark them as underage. Desperate for something to do, something to focus on that’s not all the places where Mithian is touching him, Arthur checks the back of his hand frantically to see if the marker washed off in the fountain. It didn’t. He’s cold as fuck, but he’s beginning to sweat. </p><p>“Arthur,” Mithain says evenly. “You know, we don’t have to hook up.” </p><p>Arthur whips his head around to stare at her, something like panic bubbling up his throat. He thinks of Vivian, how he fucked <em>that </em>up, too. “We don’t? I mean, what made you think that—”</p><p>“Shut up. It’s cool,” she interrupts. “I like hanging out as friends.” Then she pats his cheek like he’s a dog or a baby, and it should bother him, but it’s sort of a relief to be treated that way by a girl, the way Morgana and Gwen touch him, stern and pedantic. No expectation, no pressure, no <em>subtext. “</em>You can relax,” she tells him. </p><p>So, he does<em>. </em>A long, aching sigh explodes from his lips, and he closes his eyes, sagging into the cement. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should <em>want</em> to hook up with you. You’re, like. You’re the hottest girl I've ever seen, and you’re way cooler than literally anyone I know, and I <em>really, </em>really like you, but—“</p><p>“There’s another girl, I get it,” she says evenly, face pinched for a moment before she reaches out and reassuringly squeezes his wet shoulder, something like pity eclipsing her features before it’s gone, replaced with unreadable placidity. “We can try again when you’re over her. You know, or not. I don’t mind being just friends, Arthur. If that’s what you want for now.” </p><p>“Yeah, okay. Thanks,” he mumbles. “I just think that—m’not ready, or something. To mess around or date another girl,” he admits, forgetting for a second that this is all secretly about Merlin, who he will never be over because it’s not a superficial, regular heartbreak like getting dumped by a girl. It’s being dumped by his best friend. It’s the last eight years of his life, indelibly altered, ripped to shreds, put through a meat grinder. They don’t have a rulebook for that, and Blink-182 hasn’t written any songs on the subject to tell him how he should feel. How he should <em>cope. </em>“I like being just friends with you, too,” he adds awkwardly. “Thanks for being chill.” </p><p>“No problem,” she says, making a fist and knocking it into his shoulder exaggeratedly. “Bro.” </p><p>All this talk of <em>just</em> <em>friendship </em>only makes Arthur miss Merlin <em>acutely, </em>more acutely than he’s allowed himself to feel since the ill-fated and unspeakable phone call. And Arthur hates himself for it but misses Merlin so much in this moment that it feels like going crazy. Like starving. Like dying. </p><p>A peacock cries in the distance, and several more answer it, until the whole of the night is filled with a choir of <em>help, help, help </em>on an endless loop, set to a chlorine and horse shit backdrop. And very faintly, under all of that, eucalyptus. Elementary school. And for some reason, it makes him sad, and his eyes prickle so suddenly that he hides his face in his hands, lest his body decides to do something embarrassing like <em>leak </em>in front of Mithian. </p><p>She doesn’t say anything, though. She just hums wordlessly in her throat, reaches out and rubs his back, pets his hair, and he’s quiet for a long time until the stabbing pain in his throat subsides enough that he can breathe again. </p><p>—-</p><p>2007</p><p><em>The entire summer before Merlin leaves for college, Arthur is half-certain that it’s not really going to happen. That once August burns out into the orange of fall, Merlin will reveal that this was all just an elaborate joke and say </em>psyche! <em>Maybe take a few classes at the community college like they always </em>said <em>he would, so there’s still plenty of time for band practice. </em></p><p>You can just give it up, <em>Arthur wants to say sometimes, when they’re drunk and it seems impossible to live without the shape of Merlin’s scapula in the cup of his palm. It’s stupid to be separated. Merlin would never </em>do<em> that to him, which means this whole San Francisco college thing can’t be </em>real<em>. It’s a prank, a test, and maybe if Arthur plays along, September won't come for him and steal Merlin away in a cloud of Bay Area fog with creeping fingers. </em></p><p>
  <em>But the days march on, sun-bleached and terminal. Arthur pretends that they have longer, even though he knows they don’t. </em>
</p><p><em>By the time August is almost over, Merlin still hasn't come magically clean yet and called the whole thing off. Every day feels tense and precious, drawn tight like sunburnt skin about to peel, and Arthur wants </em>so badly<em> for them to go on forever like this. Kids forever, summer forever, endless lazy popsicle days forever, sleeping in until 2pm and skating once the sun goes down, on and on until they save up enough for a tour van and drive off into the sunset to hit it big. </em></p><p><em>But one week before Merlin is supposed to cart off to the Bay Area for orientation, it gets too hot to do </em>anything<em> at all but sit around and worry. Even at dusk, the pavement still burns the bottoms of their Cons, the air still dry and scorching with Santa Ana winds that strip the leaves off the oak outside Arthur’s window so they pile up in brittle green drifts against the house. When Merlin comes over to hang out, they stay inside for the air conditioning, watching movies and playing video games, but Arthur can’t help but feel like he’s wasting time—like he should be outside, </em>doing things, <em>even if it makes him sweat-slick and miserable and dizzy. He feels like he should be experiencing all the stupid shit the Valley has to offer, in case he’s wrong about everything and Merlin really </em>is<em> going to school, and this is their last fucking summer as kids together on the dirty, boring outskirts of LA. </em></p><p><em>He manages to convince Merlin to hike Chantry Flats with him, even though the way back is uphill and crawling with people in the summer, and the last time they went, they’d been too chickenshit to actually do the Hermit Falls cliff dive. It’ll be different, this time, Arthur decides. It’ll be empty, just the two of them, and they’ll find their balls somewhere along the way and take the 50-foot plunge like real men, or something, like friends in an ‘80s coming of age movie. This summer will be worth remembering for other reasons </em>besides<em> the fact that Merlin is ruining everything and skipping town alone. </em></p><p>
  <em>When Merlin agrees to the hike, it's under the condition that they go after dark to avoid the heat and the crowds, and that there’s no cliff diving or swimming to speak of because he doesn’t want to drown. Arthur is desperate enough for a Memorable Summer Memory that he goes along without complaint, pretty certain that once they get there, he’ll push Merlin in anyway, at least into the shallow pools. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But as it turns out, even after dark, the hike is arduous enough that they’re sweaty and breathless by the time they make it to Hermit Falls, dust clinging to the patina of perspiration coating their skin as the sun sets violet-pink along the jagged haze of the mountains. Arthur’s mouth feels gritty with dirt, and he scrambles clumsily down the rocks on his ass to rinse his tongue and teeth off, Merlin gingerly following, pale in the spill of oncoming moonlight, mouth downturned to the corners in a frown. “Why do you look so pissed?” Arthur scolds, knocking into him before peeling his running shoes off and banging a few tiny rocks out. “We just hiked all of Chantry basically in the dark, which is sick, plus there are no people here, just like you wanted.” </em>
</p><p><em>“M’not pissed,” Merlin says quietly, knocking right back into Arthur, something almost </em>sad <em>flickering in his eyes. “I’m thinking. But it’s fine.” </em></p><p><em>“Well, come on then, what are you thinking about?” Arthur pries, an edge to his voice making it sound sharp, like a dog’s begging whines. Merlin is always </em>like<em> this—he hides shit, he doesn't </em>talk<em> about his feelings unless Arthur bugs him about it for days, wearing him down like water against rocky shores until Merlin eventually crumbles to sand. It’s annoying, though, because Merlin is so fucking </em>obvious<em> when he's upset about something. Pouting and staring off into the distance and big-sighing and refusing to smile, all the while acting like Arthur is being </em>rude<em> if he doesn’t ignore it. </em></p><p>
  <em>“The future, I guess,” Merlin mumbles eventually, dipping his fingers into the water. “School.” </em>
</p><p><em>Something like fear courses through Arthur, sudden and choking. School’s a joke, school’s a prank, school is not actually happening. Merlin isn't allowed to </em>talk<em> about school because that makes it seem real, shines a glaring flashlight onto Arthur’s denial so it scatters like cockroaches, skittering off into willful darkness. </em></p><p><em>“You always find shit to worry about,” Arthur says. “Don’t think about the future, think about right </em>now <em>instead.” And then he decides he cannot sit here a second longer, next to his friend who, for some fucking reason, wants to </em>leave without him <em>in a week, like the last seven years of plotting and daydreaming and writing shitty songs and buying instruments and half-learning to play them meant nothing at all. Arthur stands and strips off his shirt, tossing it onto the rock jutting out to their left before shucking his socks and jeans so that he’s in nothing but his boxers and the black rubber band bracelet he wears to snap against his wrist whenever he gets an untimely boner. </em></p><p>
  <em>Merlin’s eyes widen into alarmed puddles of blue in the night as he gazes up at him. “What are you doing?!” he asks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Swimming,” Arthur declares. “You can stay here and be boring if you want, but I’m going in.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s freezing,” Merlin warns him, gaze incredulous. “You’re gonna hate it.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well, if my heart stops and I start to sink, then I guess I can’t count on you to come save me, then,” Arthur snaps back. “Some friend, Merlin.” </em>
</p><p><em>Merlin rolls his eyes before grudgingly following suit, yanking his own shirt over his head and scooting further down the rock until the toes of his shoes touch the water where it licks back, dark and frigid. He reluctantly takes them off, and something wild courses through Arthur at the sight, at the knowledge that Merlin does not like to be called a bad friend. </em>Will you stay, then? <em>he thinks desperately. </em>If I tell you I can’t survive this shitty fucking town without you, that you're killing me by leaving, will you stay? </p><p>
  <em>But instead he says nothing and begins to wade into the icy black pool. </em>
</p><p><em>The water steals his breath as he slips into the chill, but shortly after the initial shock, a strange sort of relief sinks in, his thighs going numb, bones aching in their prison of muscle. There is a steep drop off, the silty bottom giving way to terrifying blackness, and suddenly Arthur is treading water to stay afloat, sucking in frantic breaths. The cold is so cold that it </em>hurts<em>, but it also feels </em>good<em>, to sting all over like this, throbbing with pins and needles until sensation fades to a distant prickle, then to nothingness. The hike’s built-up sweat and grime wash away, and he’s clean, out here. Nothing but melted snow, running mountain water, the starless vacancy of sky above him, and Merlin like a lighthouse sitting on the rock, white and watching. </em></p><p>
  <em>“Are you okay?” he calls anxiously from the shore, his voice nearly drowned out by the thud of blood in Arthur's ears. He splashes when he tries to beckon, his motions jerky and aborted. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah,” he says through chattering teeth. “M’great. It’s refreshing. You should come in.” </em>
</p><p><em>Merlin looks skeptical. “People drown out here,” he warns, but then he’s tentatively following Arthur anyway, jaw set tight as he grimaces at the frigidity. The water is so dark against his pale stomach, and Arthur’s gaze zeros in on the contrast effortlessly. “</em>Fuck, <em>that’s cold.” </em></p><p><em>“And you </em>were <em>hot, you were complaining the entire hike. This should feel good, be grateful for the change,” Arthur argues, swimming back to the shallower part where he can actually stand, heels digging into the sandy bottom as he grips Merlin’s forearms now that he’s close enough for Arthur to touch to steady himself with. The water splashes around them, black like ink, warmer in the spaces between their bodies. “That’s better,” Arthur murmurs, even though he’s not entirely sure what he’s talking about. </em></p><p><em>They shiver together, arms gripped. Merlin is humming something to distract himself from the cold, and Arthur recognizes it, he thinks, but can’t place it. “What </em>are <em>you singing?” </em></p><p>
  <em>“The Smiths,” he bites out. “You know, the song about the bus.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t know a Smiths song about a bus, Merlin.” </em>
</p><p><em>Then he makes an impatient sound, shifting closer to Arthur and clipping out, “</em>And if a double-decker bus, crashes into us, to die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die.” </p><p>
  <em>“Oh,” Arthur says, ears ringing like the aftermath of a gunshot. Except there is no gunshot, there is nothing at all. Just Merlin. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And that—just that, those words, half-spoken, half-sung, off-key and off-tempo and shuddering with cold—Arthur’s stomach plummets hot and hard, and he’s pulling Merlin into his arms without thinking. First he means to push him under the water, then he means to crush him in an awkward embrace, but what happens instead is that he loops one arm around the back of his neck and tugs him in until their mouths meet. </em>
</p><p><em>It’s the only bright-burning thing in all the world, save for a memory of the day. Merlin makes a soft sound and opens up sweet and slick, so Arthur licks into him as their bodies press flush, wobbling, wet, unsteady. There's no one around to see them. No one to </em>impress<em>, so Arthur tries to imagine some mermaid girl in the deep end of the pool watching them, goading him into doing a good job. But it’s hard to sustain the image in his head for more than a few seconds, not with Merlin’s tongue in his mouth, and soon the thought dies along with his breath. Merlin tastes of lake water and sweat-salt, and there are no stars in the sky, but they’re </em>here<em>, behind Arthur’s eyelids, exploding in messes of static as Merlin kisses him like kissing is drowning, smoothing his hands up his bare chest to chase the thunder of his heartbeat before they link to tremble behind his neck. </em></p><p>
  <em>Arthur wishes he could stop time. But he knows that’s a stupid fucking thing to wish. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eventually, Merlin pulls away, teeth chattering, eyes pupil-dark as he searches Arthur’s face like he’s looking for something. “What are you doing?” he asks, a reediness to his voice that makes it sound raw, sticky, like the skin under a freshly picked scab. </em>
</p><p><em>But Arthur doesn’t know how to answer that. His heart is racing, he’s shivering all over, he can’t feel his legs. The truth is too ugly to look at, so instead, he lies. “I—fooling around, I guess,” he says with a clumsy shrug, tearing his gaze away from Merlin and up to the sky. “Freezing to fucking death,” he adds. </em>To die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die. </p><p><em>Merlin lets go of him, and just like that, time goes on. It trips and it climbs and it stalls and it sleeps, but it doesn’t fucking </em>stop. <em>August turns into September. Friends turn into traitors. Fall comes and it comes, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. </em></p><p>
  <em>“Get out of the water, then,” Merlin mumbles, turning his back and wading out, receding like a sail in the night. “If you’re so cold.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Arthur is frozen, though, so he just watches the shape of Merlin’s back retreat until he remembers he should follow. </em>
</p><p><em>Once Merlin makes it to the rock shore, he spreads out beneath the empty sky, eyes shut, narrow chest heaving. Arthur scrambles out after him, the stone still sun-warmed under his back. “Are you </em>sure<em> you’re not pissed about something?” he blurts again, poking Merlin’s arm. </em></p><p>
  <em>Merlin sighs, his eyes flicking open. “Arthur, will you leave it alone?” he begs, and there is such a plaintive note to his voice that Arthur actually does as he's told and backs off, for once. </em>
</p><p><em>“Sorry, Jesus,” he mumbles, settling back down onto the warm rock, dripping from his boxers. He can still taste Merlin’s spit on his lips, and he wants it back, wants to keep kissing him, wants to get carried away like they do when they’re drunk at parties, but they’re </em>not<em> drunk, they’re </em>totally<em> alone in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the moon and the water watching, and that changes fucking everything. Arthur lets out a big, shuddering sigh, his chest vice-tight and aching. “You’re gonna get so bored in school without me,” he says, naming this thing that he hasn’t let himself name because he feels like Merlin has backed him into a corner, and there’s nothing to do but lash out, or sink to his knees. He settles for a combination of both. </em></p><p><em>He’s putting the ball in Merlin’s court, now. Giving him the opportunity to back out last minute, say, </em>you really thought I was gonna leave there for a minute, didn't you? I really had you going<em>. And then this will all go back to normal. They can kiss in crowded hallways come fall, and Arthur can get carried away again. </em></p><p><em>But Merlin doesn't call off the joke. He doesn't say </em>psyche!<em> He just chews his lip and mumbles, “Yeah, maybe. But I think—I think it will be good for me, to get away.” </em></p><p><em>The </em>from you<em> feels implied, but maybe Arthur is just being paranoid. His insides gather and clench all the same, and he forces out a harsh, defensive, “</em>Why?” </p><p>
  <em>Merlin looks away. “I dunno. To see new things, meet new people, learn new stuff. I’ve grown up here in the same neighborhood all my life, Arthur. I don’t have money like your family, I've never traveled. This is my opportunity to see stuff.” </em>
</p><p><em>Arthur reels back, offended that their touring plans are apparently not good enough anymore. “You could travel with me,’” he says flatly. “You want to go to San Francisco? Whatever, we can go. We can literally go </em>tomorrow. <em>I’ll book a flight on my dad’s credit card, and we’ll go see a show at Slim’s and eat some sourdough and swim to Alcatraz. It’ll be way better than </em>school, trust me, <em>Merlin</em>.” <em>His throat gets tighter with each word, his eyes burning because—because he can’t understand why Merlin would want to do things without him when he doesn’t want to do things without Merlin. Because he doesn’t understand what’s exciting or interesting about college when the alternative is </em>having a band<em> with your </em>best friend. <em>He doesn’t understand why Merlin is </em>ruining <em>it all. </em></p><p>
  <em>Merlin turns back to him, the eyeliner he was wearing running a little and making dark smudges beneath his lashes like he hasn’t slept, or like he’s been crying. “I think it’ll be good for you, too,” he says quietly, smiling a watery smile. “For us.” And then his eyes flash, and he licks his lips before tacking on a hasty, “Maybe the distance will make you learn to appreciate me better.” </em>
</p><p>I appreciate you plenty, <em>Arthur thinks indignantly, but he doesn’t want to give Merlin the satisfaction, so he punches him firmly in the arm instead. “Why would I learn to appreciate a friend who’s forgetting our plans to get out of town together and ditching me for </em>college?! <em>I’m gonna start a band with someone who appreciates </em>me, <em>Merlin, if we’re talking about appreciation here.” </em></p><p><em>“You don’t get it because—because of a lot of reasons, really. But mostly you have money,” Merlin explains. “You know what you’re going to do with your life, you know you’ll have a job at your dad’s company. You don’t </em>have<em> to go to school to secure your future, you have a fucking </em>trust<em> fund, Arthur. And we’ll—we </em>will<em> start a band one day, I just need to do this. In case that plan doesn’t work out. I don’t have a failsafe to fall back on like you do.” </em></p><p><em>Arthur feels like he’s been socked in the fucking gut. Like he could puke right here, just spit a bunch of blood and lake water out onto the rock. That’s how hard it hits him. Merlin has never </em>talked<em> about their plan not working before. In fact, the only reason Arthur has been so certain it would work was because </em>Merlin<em> was. The band was his idea, he had </em>faith<em> in it, in their future, and now—to hear his certainty waver, to hear him use the word </em>failsafe <em>about something else…it’s gutting. </em></p><p><em>He sits up, suddenly so sick and shaky that he can’t inhale without the split of air inside his body tearing him asunder.</em> I don’t want you to go,<em> he thinks, on and on like a siren, a car alarm. But instead of saying it, he crashes back into the icy water to clear his head. Nothing but melted snow, running mountain water, and the starless vacancy of sky above him.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. EVERY DRAWING THAT I DO IS NEVER EVER AS CUTE AS YOU</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HEY GUYS!! sorry it took me a minute to update this: good news is that I WROTE the climactic scene about a week ago. But instead of delving back into the angst and discussions and navigation that follows (this will have a happy ending but there are rocky bits before then) I sort of wanted to just sit at that peak for a minute. I think about these characters constantly, and they were finally in a good place, and I weirdly just...wanted to let them stay there for a minute before hurting them again lol. So I wrote a few other fics in a few other fandoms, but I'm diving in again very soon! In the meantime, here is a chapter. You can expect valley history and hurting hearts and mall montages. I will be very pleased if someone can tell me what Arthur and Merlin's AIM screen names are referencing. </p>
<p>Lastly, I wanted to thank you all for reading. I realize this story is odd and meandering in its structure. It's meant to feel like a scrap book or a shoe-box of high school memories, and they unfold messily and non-linearly, like old photos, notes passed in class, movie tickets, etc. I am so so so happy you all have chosen to go on on this journey with me and uncover those memories. I wasn't sure anyone would read this because of its lack of chronology, but I've been so pleased by how many people are living it and relating to it! Thank you!!! More coming so soon!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2008</p>
<p>Once they dry off, they scale the chain link again and end up at a Denny’s. Arthur feels like he’s been here before, but maybe only because every Denny’s feels exactly the same. The same fried egg and syrup smell, the same eerily comforting uniformity. “This one is special, though,” Mithian tells him, tying her black hair up into a messy bun and exposing her ears, which Arthur is only now noticing are pierced too many times to count. Little studs along the cartilage and hoops through the lobes, all of them uneven and clumsy, like she did them herself with a needle and ice, save for a professional-looking bar through the top of one of them. The mere sight of it makes his stomach turn in sympathy pain. </p>
<p>“What’s so special about it? I feel like the whole <em>thing</em> about chains is that they’re identical, so you can go into one anywhere in the country and feel like you’re home. Order the same shitty breakfast.” </p>
<p>“Well,” she says with authority, the corner of her mouth turning up in a delighted smile. “This one used to be a Dutch Bakery. It was another chain, in the ‘60s, and they all had these kitschy windmills on top of the building. They were all over LA before they went bankrupt. So if you ever see a restaurant with a windmill on top, like this one? You know it used to be a Van de Kamp’s Holland Dutch Bakery,” she explains, thumbing through the laminated menu, brow furrowed. Arthur studies her over the top of his own menu, chewing the inside of his cheek until it tastes metallic. She must feel him looking because her eyes flick up, dark and critical. “What?” she asks, cocking her head. </p>
<p>Arthur shakes his head. “Nothing,” he mumbles, flipping to the page with the Build Your Own Grand Slams. “Just. You know, a lot of things.” </p>
<p>She grins. “I’m sort of into local history, actually. Like the Arboretum? You don't even <em>know</em> how many movies were shot there. Like, literally tons. <em>Jurassic Park</em>. <em>Star Trek</em>. <em>African Queen</em>. <em>Lord of the Flies</em>.” </p>
<p>“Wow,” Arthur says. “Any intel on the peacocks?” </p>
<p>“Yes, actually,” she says, setting the menu down with a snap and grabbing a single-serving strawberry jelly from the little jelly corral at the head of the table and peeling it open. “They’re an invasive species brought here by Elias ‘Lucky’ Baldwin. He’s the dude who founded Arcadia in the 1800s, and he was one of those wild, eccentric, rich psychos. He went to India, thought peacocks were pretty, and brought them back to fuck up the ecosystem forever. Bitches thrived like pigeons. Now they rule the Arboretum,” she explains, between eating spoonfuls of jelly straight. </p>
<p>Arthur stares. “Damn,” he says eventually, impressed. “So, the Lucky Baldwin’s pubs are named after him?” </p>
<p>“There’s all sorts of shit in the San Gabriel Valley named after him. He owned the place, bought nearly everything. That's where he got the nickname Lucky…I feel like he sold his soul to the devil or something to hit it big. That’s how wealth happens…if you go back far enough in any rich family, someone did something evil, fucked someone over, or summoned a demon,” she says, matter of factly. </p>
<p>Arthur squirms, thinking of his father. Of the Pendragon name. Of the way he <em>has</em> money and legacy but lies about it in most social situations because it makes him feel awkward. People treat him differently if they know—they always <em>want</em> something—or else they just assume he’s an asshole and write him off entirely. He knows it’s disingenuous, but it feels <em>fine, </em>to just sort of skate through life pretending to be normal in the circumstances where it benefits him, wielding the privilege that comes along with his name in circumstances where <em>that </em>is the better bed. Or it felt fine when he was still friends with Merlin. Because Merlin knew who he really was, and having that single person amid crowds of jealousy and social climbing and resentment made all the difference. Merlin made fun of him for having money, made sure it never got to his head, and kept him real, grounded, humble. </p>
<p>Arthur lays his hand on his chest, over the sudden pang beside his heartbeat. <em>Fuck. </em>And he had been doing so <em>good</em> in regards to thinking about Merlin. Or <em>not</em> thinking about him. He even went night swimming and kept the crisp black cold of Chantry out of his mind the whole fucking time, a vacancy, a silence, a block of dry ice that could not be touched lest it burn. </p>
<p>Mithian is still looking at him, waiting for his comment on money and the devil, perhaps. But luckily, before he has to admit that he’s genuinely not so sure about his dad, their waitress arrives and saves him from the impending threat of honesty. Mithian orders Moons Over My Hammy (<em>classic, </em>the waitress says) and Arthur orders two Grand Slams, one with pancakes, French toast, and sausage, the other with hash browns, bacon, and a biscuit. The waitress says nothing about that, but once she’s gone, Mithian raises her groomed brows and says, “Worked up an appetite?” </p>
<p>Arthur shrugs. “I guess.” </p>
<p>She nods knowingly, then reaches across the oily table to squeeze his forearm in a tight grip. “Hey,” she asks. “We’re having fun, right?” </p>
<p>“We’re having a great time,” Arthur promises. “Or,<em> I </em>am.” </p>
<p>“I am, too,” Mithian promises back, and the gentle squeeze turns into a sharp pinch, her eyes glinting. “You’re thinking about the girl, though. I can see it, you get all wistful and mopey.” </p>
<p>Arthur tears his gaze away, feels his cheeks color. “Shut up, I don’t.” </p>
<p>“You do! It’s okay. You can talk about her, you know. I don’t mind,” she says, grabbing another jelly packet. This time it's orange marmalade, and it smells like summer when she opens it and sucks the candy-colored goop off the spoon. </p>
<p>Arthur shakes his head, thinking, <em>no, I can’t because there is no girl, I made it all up, </em>but he ends up surprising himself by swallowing thickly and confessing, “One of the very last times we hung out, before she left, we went night swimming.” </p>
<p>It hangs in the air, the memory of it jagged and dark and smelling of pine. It’s something Arthur has kept close to his heart without looking at for a very long time since it happened, stowed away and full to the point of overflow with secrets, like a diary. </p>
<p>“Oh, were you as much of a pussy about it then as you were with me?” Mithian asks casually, reaching for an individual serving of grape preserves this time. </p>
<p>“No,” Arthur snorts. “I got in first. I had to annoy her to come with me in the first place, let alone get in the water.” </p>
<p>“Maybe it was a premonition,” Mithian offers. “That you were more into it than she was.” </p>
<p>The notion cinches around Arthur’s heart, makes him grit his teeth and brace himself for pain the way he does when he’s stubbed his toe or knocked his funny bone or something, when there are those moments of anticipation before the brunt of it comes cracking down. “Maybe,” he says, as the throbbing ache settles in. </p>
<p>Before she can further pry him open and dissect him, their food arrives, Arthur’s on six separate plates all cupped and balanced artfully in their waitress’s expert grip, and once again, Arthur thinks about his father, and selling one's soul, and the devil, and money, and lying. He vows to leave their waitress an extra huge tip. Then they eat, and argue about Blink-182’s best record, and drum on the edge of the table with their syrup-sticky silverware. Arthur finishes everything but his pancakes, which Mithian ends up polishing off, drenched in jelly because apparently she really likes jelly. </p>
<p>For the hundredth time that night, Arthur thinks about how perfect she is and wonders how hard he’s blowing it with her by pretending he’s hung up on some girl when he’s actually just hung up on Merlin. He imagines telling the truth—<em>actually, we can hook up if you want because I’m not heartbroken. Or, like, not in the way you think I am. I wasn’t in love. Or at least, I don’t think I am. Was. </em>He stays silent, though, because he doesn’t trust himself not to fuck up the truth, and he’s already come so far lying. He might as well ride this wave to its death. So he pays and leaves the waitress an enormous tip for his enormous breakfast that’s actually just an enormous dinner. </p>
<p>On their way out, Mithian feeds some quarters to a claw machine and wins a goofy pink stuffed dog. “What’s her name?” she asks upon triumphantly holding up her prize, staring into its shiny plastic eyes thoughtfully. </p>
<p>“Whose? The dog’s?” Arthur asks, jerking away as Mithian tries to shove it into his arms. </p>
<p>“No, the girl who wouldn’t swim with you last summer who you’re still crying about,” she clarifies. </p>
<p>Arthur’s heart lurches. “I'm not <em>crying,” </em>he says, trying to buy time since he hasn’t thought this far in advance, doesn’t have some codename picked out for the Merlin-girl. And he can’t say Merlin-girl. And he can’t say <em>Merlin. </em>He looks around Denny’s frantically, until his eyes land on a menu, where there is an advertisement for a limited-time-only Katy Perry Hot N Cold Cherry Chocolate Cappuccino milkshake. “Katie,” he says in a fit of brilliance. “Short for, uh, Katherine.” </p>
<p>“I see,” Mithian says, narrowing her eyes at him in what he <em>hopes</em> isn’t suspicion. “Well. This dog is <em>also</em> named Katie. And you can take her home and <em>cry over her, </em>or we can stab her in the park and rip all her stuffing out and howl at the moon. It’s a moving on ritual.” </p>
<p>Arthur blinks. “I thought you were against demonic rituals or whatever.” </p>
<p>She shrugs. “Not rituals in <em>general</em>. Only the kind that entail selling your soul in exchange for founding a city and filling it with peacocks you stole from India,” she explains, waving the dog in his face. Its stupid grin feels like it’s mocking him, its red plush tongue lolling. “What do you say?” </p>
<p>Arthur realizes he might be a little superstitious because the idea of destroying something named after Merlin, or even Merlin’s girl alter ego, makes the back of his neck prickle in discomfort. It feels like bad luck. Like he’ll deserve whatever grief and loss that follows. But then he remembers the way Merlin had to be coaxed into the water at Chantry, the way he packed up his room into Hunith’s minivan and let her drive him across the Golden Gate fucking Bridge, the way he called Arthur on the phone just to tell him he didn’t want him anymore. These memories tumble together like balls in a bingo cage, like pebbles down a hill, and Arthur presses his tongue decidedly into the inside of his cheek before saying, “Let’s do it.” </p>
<p>Mithian grins as they push out the door, cut through the parking lot, and cross the street diagonally into the darkness of the park. It’s not gated or fenced off, but it feels like trespassing anyway, the still quiet pressing into them from all sides. Arthur follows Mithian, who seems to know where she’s going, weaving through trees and park benches until they make it to the edge of a baseball diamond. “Home base is our sacrificial stone,” she decides, the red dirt crunching beneath her sneakers as she walks out into the center and drops her backpack there before fishing out a pocket knife and handing it to Arthur. “Do the honors.” </p>
<p>It takes forever to actually make a proper incision in the cheap stuffed animal fur. He ends up having to cut along the seam of its leg, ripping out the stitching, and feeling equal parts stupid and guilty as he does it. He hates the burn of Mithian’s gaze boring holes into his back as he does this absurd thing, but not as much as he hates the paranoid, anxious feeling of willfully tearing up some symbolic vessel of his friendship (even if Merlin tore it up first). He decidedly thinks of the dog as Katie, not Merlin, and that helps a little. </p>
<p>Wind carries bits of stuffing away, and Mithian catches what she can before worrying them to even smaller strands of synthetic white between her fingers and letting them dissipate into the night like dandelion fluff. Eventually, the dog is nothing but a shredded pink skin emptied of all its insides, and Arthur is breathless on his knees, fist sweat-slick around the handle of the knife. “Feel better?” Mithian asks, patting his shoulder. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” he admits, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and covertly tucking a bit of white fluff into his pocket with the other. “I actually sort of do.” </p>
<p>“Let her go. Cut her loose. Katie is just stuffing in the wind,” Mithian says sagely. </p>
<p>And it’s in the finite security of those words that Arthur finds the courage to kiss Mithian goodbye on the cheek after she drops him off at his house. She smells like chlorine and sweat, and it’s better than puking in someone’s laundry basket at a house party, so Arthur considers it a success. Once she’s gone and the dawn light begins its slow, steady creep over the foothills, Arthur lets the bone-deep sensation of exhaustion sink into his body. He feels it all: the ache in his nose from being hit, the ache in his chest from staying up all night, the ache in his limbs from skating all over Hollywood. The ache in his heart from cutting something open and letting the darkness take it in infinitesimal fragments. </p>
<p>He collapses into his bed, but not before he takes the bit of stuffing from his pocket and hides it in his bedside drawer, next to the jar of baby teeth he keeps because it feels weird to throw away part of your body and the <em>Penthouse</em> magazine he’s only ever looked at once, with Merlin by his side, the bone of his knee grinding into Arthur’s ribs like an anchor point. </p>
<p>He’s too tired to push this memory out of his mind, so he closes his eyes and thinks of it: fake tan tits and fake blonde hair, the heat of Merlin’s breath as he huffs out nervous laughter and they squirm, side by side. </p>
<p>Then, he sleeps. </p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>2006</p>
<p><em>They’re mostly at Spencer’s to make fun of shit. To point and snicker and elbow each other in the back room, which is dark save for the seedy glow of neon and an orange lava lamp. The mall used to be boring, but Merlin </em>finally<em> turned eighteen, which means they can see R-rated movies together, or go to the cool sword store on the second floor and pick up the ninja stars, or sit on the massage chairs at Brookstone without the employees asking them how old they are and ushering them out, exhausted. But most importantly, they can finally behold the forbidden and long-awaited adult section of Spencer’s Gifts, which has all the novelty penis-shaped things for bachelorette parties and sex toys. Arthur’s seen them before since he’s been eighteen for a year already, but he knows his descriptions of the items therein simply don’t do their absurdity justice. It’s much more fun to actually </em>show <em>Merlin. So a few days after Merlin’s birthday, he drags him there ceremoniously. </em></p>
<p><em>There are blow-up dolls, replica fake pussies from famous pornstars, dick lollipops, furry handcuffs, cheap lingerie, candy heart butt plugs, fake leather paddles emblazoned with the word </em>SLUT <em>in bubble letters</em>. “<em>I guess so when you spank the girl, the letters show up on her ass? Does that actually work?” Arthur asks, grabbing the paddle and swatting Merlin’s skinny thigh with it. Merlin grins as he darts away, cheeks red. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“I guess so?” he answers, furrowing his brow. “Kinky.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The titillation wears off after a few minutes of wandering around and giggling, and Arthur ends up heading back up to the front of the store to look at the skateboard stickers and studded belts. Merlin remains, playing with his bottom lip and staring at the sex toys like he’s trying to puzzle out how they work, which is somehow both embarrassing to witness and makes Arthur’s stomach twist up enough that he can’t take it anymore. But a little while later, Merlin emerges with purpose, walking up to the register with something in his hand, fingers obscuring the packaging. </em>
</p>
<p><em>An alarm goes off in Arthur’s brain, and he dashes across the store to intercept Merlin. “What do you have?! Are you </em>buying<em> something?” he asks, trying to swipe the long, narrow box from Merlin as he swiftly hides it. His heart is pounding, his teeth are bared into something like a smile. “Come on.” </em></p>
<p><em>“It’s nothing,” Merlin promises, making this very innocent face at Arthur that he </em>only<em> makes when he’s lying through his teeth. “See?” he says, holding up an empty hand, then holding up the other before very </em>obviously<em> transferring the mystery item behind his back between them. “It’s your birthday present, you can’t look.” </em></p>
<p><em>Arthur buys this for a second because his birthday </em>is<em> coming up. But when Merlin pays, the cashier cards him, and then slides the box into a discreet, opaque bag, which means it’s something from the adult section, and Arthur just </em>doesn’t<em> think Merlin would get him a sex-present, even if it was a joke. This must be something else. Something personal. Something </em>secret. <em>And they don't </em>have<em> secrets, not if he has anything to do with it, so. He relentlessly pesters Merlin about his purchase as they walk to the food court to get lunch, but Merlin is actually very good at deflecting Arthur’s questions and sticking to his story, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that if Arthur wants to know what’s in that bag, it’s going to require a theft. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>He pretends to give up and plays it cool as they wait in line for their pizza, Arthur’s mouth watering at the overwhelming smell of a hundred foods all mixing together in a multicultural cacophony. Hot Dog on a Stick and Panda Express and Subway and Jamba Juice, clinging to the air and blending together in an indistinguishable haze of salt and oil. They pay and find a table, and Arthur sees his chance. His golden opportunity. The bag swings from Merlin’s bony elbow, gaping open at the top as he sets his pizza down, so Arthur fakes sitting before launching up instead and trying to reach inside the bag, viper-quick. </em>
</p>
<p><em>But Merlin is smart and fights dirty, so he catches Arthur’s wrist in a grip that means business and digs his nails in as hard as he can. They squabble for a moment, Arthur laughing breathlessly, Merlin’s eyes the bluest fucking blue, clear like spring water, pale like a husky dog’s, and then </em>fucking finally,<em> Arthur manages to rip it away from him, panting. “See, Merlin, this is why you should just </em>tell<em> me things. I always find out anyway,” he says smugly </em>before<em> he bothers looking down at the narrow box and seeing what it is. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>When the reality dawns on him, all hope he had of saying anything else clever ever again suddenly evaporates, leaving him parched, gasping, blood thudding in his ears. </em>
</p>
<p><em>It’s a fucking </em>vibrator. <em>Plastic, an unexciting beige color, slender, about six inches long, not at all realistic or dick-like in appearance but still, inexplicably and inarguably, a </em>vibrator. <em>Waterproof, the packaging says. So you can fuck yourself in the ocean with it, maybe. Arthur doesn't know because he’s not a girl and never in his life has he considered why one of these things might need to be waterproof. </em></p>
<p><em>“Is this a gift for a girl?” he ends up blurting because it’s his first coherent thought. It makes his scalp prickle, though, his chest clench. He </em>hates <em>when Merlin keeps shit from him, and he hasn’t </em>heardanything<em> about a girl. Not even a theoretical one. He examines the box for a few more seconds, like it might provide him with answers, but then his fingers start to feel weird and tingly, his cheeks burn, and he has to drop it on the table between their pizzas lest something go up in fire. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Merlin snatches it up and hastily shoves it back into the bag. “No,” he says, firm and even. </em>
</p>
<p><em>Arthur stares, mouth open, lip curled. “Well </em>what,<em> then? Why on earth would you buy—”</em></p>
<p>
  <em>“It’s for me,” Merlin interrupts, looking up defiantly with his eyes flashing hard and cold. He licks his lips, studies Arthur’s face, staring him down across the table while their pizza gets cold between them, untouched. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“How?” Arthur sputters because he just—Merlin </em>can’t<em> mean </em>that—<em>that unspeakable thing Arthur doesn’t even really have a name for. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“I’m curious,” Merlin says with a shrug, grabbing a slice of pizza and taking a violent bite, like he’s trying to prove something. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“Curious about </em>what?!” <em>Arthur snaps, honestly appalled that Merlin can </em>eat<em> at a time like this. That he’s managed to sustain an appetite when there’s a waterproof vibrator in a bag on the floor next to their table. “Those—those are for girls.” </em></p>
<p><em>“They don’t have to be,” Merlin says matter of factly, like he’s some sort of fucking vibrator expert, even though he and Arthur have literally never in the duration of their entire friendship </em>ever<em> spoken about such a thing. Sex stuff, sure. But vibrators? It’s so specific, so </em>alien, <em>and Arthur can’t make sense of it. Except he can. He knows—he has a general idea of how men get fucked. He just doesn’t let himself think about it too much because it makes him feel hot and squirmy and ashamed. It’s dirty and weird, to stick something up your ass, and he thought Merlin felt similarly about such things. Not </em>curious. </p>
<p>“<em>You want to—with </em>that?!”<em> Arthur hisses, gaze darting back down to the bag, heart in his throat. “You think it will feel good?”</em></p>
<p>
  <em>“I don’t know how it will feel. Hence the curiosity. Arthur, can we not talk about this at the fucking food court?” he begs, brows lifting into elegant arches. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“Right,” Arthur mumbles. But he </em>needs<em> to know, now. Needs to understand. He tries his hardest to not say anything, but his appetite is gone, replaced with rolling, uncertain waves of nausea. So instead of eating, he sips his giant Sprite and peels all the pepperoni off the greasy slice of pizza to pile them at the corner of his plate, mind racing. He can’t help it, he can’t stop himself. He needs to know. Because it will change everything. “Are you gay?” he eventually asks, gaze locked on the Leaning Tower of Pepperoni he’s just constructed. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“No,” Merlin says firmly, and Arthur’s heart pounds, torn between relief and some sort of peculiar, confusing disappointment. “But I dunno, maybe I’m bi.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“We just fake that for girls,” Arthur reminds him. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Merlin’s mouth twists, the shape of it breaking, pressing, flickering. “You do. I don’t know about me, I don’t—,” he cuts himself off, shaking his head in an abrupt, aborted motion before changing his approach. “Maybe I just want to know how it feels. Like, they say don’t knock it till you try it.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>“Billie Joe Armstrong</em> does <em>say that. In ‘King for a Day.’</em>” </p>
<p>“Nimrod<em> is Green Day’s best album,” Merlin offers, gaze shifting, cautiously hopeful, but </em>no, <em>Arthur is not gonna let this fucking conversation die here. He needs to </em>know<em>. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“Back on track, Merlin, you can’t wiggle out of this one,” he says firmly. “So.You want to know how gay sex feels?” </em>
</p>
<p><em>Merlin’s face gets so pink. It would be hot under Arthur’s thumbs if he pressed them into the hollow beneath his cheekbones right now. He sits on his hands so he doesn’t grab him, heart pounding so hard in his throat that he feels like he might choke. “No, I want to know how—</em>this, <em>specifically feels. Girls can do it to guys, too, you know. With those strap-on fake—”</em></p>
<p><em>“Yes, I </em>know, <em>I’ve seen lesbian porn, Merlin, thank you,” Arthur interjects impatiently, even though he technically hasn’t seen lesbian porn beyond the free video thumbnails. He knows a lot of guys are supposedly into that, even if he personally finds it boring. But still—he knows what a strap-on is. He saw one in the Spencer’s Gifts adult section twenty minutes ago. </em></p>
<p><em>He grapples with the information he now possesses. With this newfound knowledge that Merlin wants to get fucked like a lesbian in porn by a girl wearing a fake dick. It’s not </em>actually<em> that weird or shocking, if he thinks about it. Merlin is sort of feminine, he uses an eyeliner pencil sometimes and has a shirt made out of fishnet that he almost wore to a show last summer before he got too insecure and changed back into his regular band t-shirt and skinnies. Arthur had been relieved—it was unnerving, seeing so much of Merlin’s skin, seeing his </em>nipples, <em>pink and distracting through the lattice of black. “Well,” he says, forcing himself to eat a pepperoni. It’s very chewy and tastes like cardboard, but he manages to swallow. “You never fail to surprise me, Merlin.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“Are you mad?” he asks in a quiet but defiant voice. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur makes a face, taken aback. “Of course not, why should I care what you’re sticking up your tiny little butt?! Please. Enjoy your experiment.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Some tension drains out of Merlin’s body, and he sags into his chair before stealing a sip of Arthur’s soda.“Or not,” he says upon swallowing, shoulders bunching in a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe I’ll hate it, and then I really will give it to you as a birthday present.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>Affronted, Arthur sputters out a shocked, coughing laugh. “I don’t want something that’s been in your </em>ass, <em>Merlin,” he says, flicking the straw wrapper across the table at him. “You’re disgusting.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Merlin grins, and Arthur pretends he’s hungry again, finishing his pizza bite by painstaking bite. </em>
</p>
<p><em>Once he’s home, Arthur tries very hard not to think about Merlin’s vibrator, but he finds that he </em>cannot stop. <em>It haunts him, the nondescript color and shape of it floating through his mind on an endless loop like a Scrolling Marquee screensaver, a boring beige missile streaking through a black sky. He can’t </em>sleep. He's<em> thinking about it so much and so invasively that eventually some time after midnight, he drags himself out of bed and wakes up his desktop computer to see if anyone is on AIM to distract him. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Instead of a distraction, he finds Merlin, which is not at all surprising because Melin is always up late on AIM and usually the only person active on his buddy list at this hour. All the same, Arthur’s stomach plummets reflexively, and before he thinks better of it, he’s opening up the window and hammering out a message. </em>
</p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV</strong>: ok so did u try it? </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666</strong>: try what? why r u you awake? </p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>dont be an idiot. the vibe. </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>wtf Arthur </p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>what????</p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV:</strong> u can’t expect me to not ask follow up questions after dropping a bomb like ‘i wanna b fucked by a fake dick’ in a food court Merlin</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>correction</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666:</strong> i did NOT drop any bombs, you stole my bag because you’re a fuckng jerk </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666:</strong> but if you must know </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666:</strong> yeah i tried it </p>
<p><em>God, Arthur thinks, his stomach seesawing as he reads the telltale sentence a few times to be absolutely certain he didn’t invent it. So Merlin really did it. He stuck that whole thing inside himself. It’s </em>possible<em>. It is a thing people actually do, in the privacy of their own homes and not just in porn—</em>real <em>people. People like Merlin.</em> </p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV:</strong> !!! ok how was it? </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>weird </p>
<p><em>Arthur grinds his teeth, blinking blearily at his computer screen and carding a hand through his hair, further worrying his already abominable bed-head. Weird is such a noncommittal and non-descriptive answer. He wants to know more than that, at the same time he doesn’t want to know </em>why<em> he wants to know more. But it’s late, and he feels crazy, and Merlin always breaks down if he digs at him enough, so. He’ll keep it up until his knuckles bleed, until his nails are caked in dirt. </em></p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>lol weird how? did it hurt? </p>
<p>
  <em>It takes Merlin a long time to reply. Arthur keeps wondering if he's fallen asleep, maybe, but then “2niteinthewhispers666 is typing” shows up above the chat window, and his heart leaps again. Eventually, the reply comes. </em>
</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>It didn’t hurt but it was overwhelming i guess? </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666:</strong> I came really fast</p>
<p>
  <em>Reflexively, Arthur’s dick twitches at the inevitable image of Merlin fucking himself. Of coming fast from fucking himself. It makes sense, he justifies, because he’s a teenager and talking about sex just, like, has this effect on his body regardless of the circumstances. It’s happened before, when he and Merlin talk about porn, or jacking off, or whatever. It’s nothing new, so Arthur doesn’t need to do anything about it. He doesn’t need to run from it. </em>
</p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>so it must have been sort of good then right </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>i mean i guess. it happened so fast</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>it made everything sensitive </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>but like an overload</p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur is sweating. His throat is thick. He palms himself through his PJ bottoms, squinting in the glow of his monitor as he leans toward the screen, like he’s ducking closer to Merlin to receive a secret whispered low and hot against the shell of his ear. </em>
</p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>hmmm. but it didn't hurt???</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>not really? a little at first but i used lube. mostly it was weird</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>felt like a stretch</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>really full </p>
<p><em>The explanation has Arthur’s dick so fucking hard, so suddenly. </em>Stretched. Full. <em>The vibrator didn’t look very big, but then again, Merlin’s not very big, either, so maybe something like that </em>would<em> feel overwhelming. Arthur reaches under his waistband to stroke himself, long and languid with a tight fist, feeling out the size of his cock and wondering. He’s definitely bigger than that vibrator, he thinks. A dick his size would probably stretch Merlin even </em>more, <em>make him feel even </em>fuller. <em>He feels precum beading at the crown and rubs it in, makes everything wet, heart pounding and breath strangled. Then he manages to type a response, one-handed. </em></p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>thats crazy</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>yeah. </p>
<p><em>Arthur waits for a further response, but it doesn’t come. Not fast enough, anyway. He wants Merlin to keep talking about what he did so he can finish himself off to it, and he </em>knows<em> that this is stupid, that it’s crazy. That he shouldn’t secretly be jacking off while his best friend tells him about his masturbation experiments. And maybe he’ll feel guilty about it later, but right now, he’s too turned on to care about anything else, and it's making him insane. His cock throbs in his fist, and he works it over, eyes locked on the chat window impatiently, until he caves and types something, just to get Merlin talking again, since it somehow feels less weird than going back to bed and making himself come just </em>thinking<em> about it. </em></p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>did you need to jack off at the same time to come? </p>
<p><em>Eventually “2niteinthewhispers666 is typing” pops up again, and Arthur lets out a shuddering breath, freeing his dick from his PJ bottoms so that he can </em>touch himself more freely. </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>sort of? </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>at first I was on my back jacking off with one hand </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>and using the vibe with the other but angle was hard to keep up </p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>yeah i can imagine that</p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur replies without thinking about how bad it sounds. He’s not in his right mind, he’s sleep-deprived and maddeningly horny, drunk on the sensation of his own hand, which has never felt so good, so consuming. It’s not until Merlin’s response comes that it occurs to him he’s said anything weird. </em>
</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>LOL y are u imagining fucking urself ??? </p>
<p><em>Merlin says, and </em>shit, <em>only then does Arthur realize that, </em>no, <em>he’s </em>not<em> imagining fucking himself. He’s imagining </em>Merlin<em> fucking himself. The tilt of his pale wrist, the arch of his back, rolling and white like storm waves. The rhythmic slide of plastic inside him, somewhere dark and secret and mysterious and thrilling. Arthur swallows thickly, holding his cock with a firm grip at the base as it twitches, dripping onto his fist. Then he lets go, to stave off his orgasm but also to type with both hands. </em></p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>ok maybe but only because you’re painting a VIVID PIC </p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>not my fault </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>i can stop</p>
<p><em>And Arthur doesn’t want </em>that, <em>so, he presses on. </em></p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>no I'm trying 2 figure out the mechanics here. </p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>so on ur back didn’t work? </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>not really, so i flipped over onto my stomach </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>and i came humping the bed i guess</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>i dunno like i said it happened fast </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>it was crazy</p>
<p><em>Jesus, </em>fuck. A<em>rthur’s dick flexes, everything wet, swollen, nervy. He’s thinking about Merlin on his navy blue sheets, his narrow hips and pale ass in the air as he reaches around himself, forearm taut as he works the vibrator inside himself. He’d probably wince and gasp at the invasion. Maybe he’d hide his face in his pillow. Maybe his breath would come fast, or he would flush all the way down his throat to his sternum, like how he does when they have to run the mile in PE. Maybe his hair would be sweat-damp, stuck to his forehead as he slides the vibrator deeper, lifting to meet the pressure before rutting his cock back down onto the bunched comforter of his bed, again and again until it was too much to bear and he came in pitiful lurches. </em>God. <em>Arthur is close, too. He teases himself, pushing his fingers through the slick at the tip, gasping alone in his bedroom, desperate for more, for enough to push him over the edge. </em></p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>did u use the vibration? </p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>not while it was in me </p>
<p><em>And, ugh, those words make Arthur’s stomach swoop as he imagines them in Merlin’s voice, low and mumbled, the perfect mix of ashamed and defiant: </em>in me. <em>Arthur is so far gone that he doesn’t even stop himself from hissing, teeth grit, fist moving fast and rough, closer and closer. </em></p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>What did u think about? </p>
<p>
  <em>His pulse is speeding, thighs cramped, everything teetering on a precipice. But Merlin is the worst, Merlin won’t give him what he wants because Merlin isn’t fucked up like he is, Merlin is awake because he stays up late of his own volition, not because he’s so obsessed with his best friend’s sex toy that he couldn’t sleep.</em>
</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>Arthur im not gonna tell you what i think about when i get off lmao</p>
<p><em>Arthur groans aloud in frustration. </em>Please, <em>he thinks. </em>Please. </p>
<p><em><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong></em>lesbian porn girls? </p>
<p><em>And then, after typing it and deleting it and retyping it with one tremulous finger, brain decidedly blank so that he doesn’t have to think about </em>why<em> he’s typing this at all—</em></p>
<p><strong>WhatTheHellisMTV: </strong>a guy? </p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur holds his breath. </em>
</p>
<p><strong>2niteinthewhispers666: </strong>maybe</p>
<p><em>And it’s crazy, but Arthur wants to ask </em>me? <em>so fucking badly. But he </em>knows<em> Merlin didn’t (of fucking course he didn’t), and he doesn’t want to ruin everything by seeing him say as much, so instead, he just lets himself </em>think<em> it for a second. Let’s himself imagine it, raw and hot and unencumbered: Merlin on his stomach, pushing the vibrator in and out, thinking of a guy’s cock. Thinking of </em>Arthur’s<em> cock.</em> <em>And just like that, he shoots off all over himself, his hand, his desk, his keyboard. The white of his jizz glistens blue in the glow of his screen, and he stares, gasping, waiting to feel the guilt of being the worst fucking friend in the world settle into his skin and lodge itself there, like splinters.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. DON'T YOU KNOW THAT MISERY LOVES ME?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>MORE!! Warning for this chapter, Arthur is perhaps even sadder and more hopeless here than anywhere else in the fic, and as a result his inner monologue could be triggering in regards to depression/self loathing. So just read with caution. This is, however, THE LAST CHAPTER BEFORE MERLIN COMES BACK!! So y'all get to meet 2008 Merlin next chapter and I promise, there's some fucking emotional payoff in your future. </p><p>Thank you everyone who has been reading, you're very sweet. I live for your comments and kudos.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2008</p><p>Arthur wakes up. He works. It’s all redundant, useless crap—stapling papers and photocopying more papers and hammering top secret financial information into spreadsheets so that Excel can do calculations for him. His father owns one of those businesses that deals exclusively with words and numbers and concepts, and so there is nothing concrete for Arthur to root himself in during his work days. Nothing to hold, or break. Just endless repetitive tech support questions because he’s the youngest person in the office and hours of horrible nothing. Losses, gains, <em>sales. </em>It’s insanely boring, and some days all he can do is let his mind wander until it finds something to trip over, inevitably catapulting the rest of him to the ground with a resounding impact. </p><p>This time, the snag is his guitar. It’s a <em>nice</em> guitar, a black Gibson with gold frets and a mahogany body. It was, like, $2,000, even though Arthur insisted that the $400 Les Paul would be <em>fine </em>when his father agreed to get him lessons. But Uther was very much of the school of thought that if there was an identical version of something that was five times the price, it was inarguably better. He also made sure to buy it from a fancy instrument shop in Glendale instead of going to Guitar Center like everyone else, which Arthur found embarrassing enough that he concealed it from Merlin for <em>months</em> before coming clean. Sometimes, it sucks to exist as a status symbol. As a marker of conspicuous consumption. Because his dad didn’t buy him that nice guitar because he <em>cares—</em>he bought it so that everyone who saw Arthur with it would <em>know</em> Uther Pendragon has a disposable income and only purchases the <em>best</em> for his son who he barely speaks to. </p><p>It’s a shame, though, that something so nice is just sitting in Merlin’s garage right now, gathering dust, untouched and unplayed and pitifully silent. It is with this logic that Arthur justifies calling Hunith to tell her he’s coming over after work to pick it up. </p><p>He’s nervous the whole time he skates to Merlin’s, which is stupid because he <em>knows</em> Merlin isn't there. That there’s no chance he’ll see him unexpectedly, even if he keeps imagining it on a stomach-turning loop: Merlin’s light eyes and wan face, tight-set and unreadable in the doorway before he turns away, slipping through Arthur’s fingers like the sift of flour, gone again, while Hunith intercepts Arthur to lie on Merlin’s behalf. <em>No, he’s not here. He’s just really busy. It’s not personal. </em></p><p>Arthur knows, now, that it <em>is</em> personal. His heart knots up in his chest at the memory, tightening with each press of his foot to the sidewalk as he propels himself, eyes streaming because the breeze is pushing fingers through his hair and buffeting his face as he skates. No other reason. </p><p>Hunith hugs him at the door, just holds him there for a moment, patting his back and squeezing him tight. It’s the worst sort of hug because it’s exactly what he needs. It unstoppers him, wrenches the rusted hinges inside his chest open so his insides all spill out, and he curls around her, several inches taller but still feeling like a little boy, the gangly sixth-grader she’d pick up from school sometimes so that his nanny could have a rare day off. He sniffles against her neck, inhaling the essential oils and home-cooking smell clinging to the fibers of her sweater as she sways back and forth gently, like sugarcane stalks in a warm breeze. “My sweet boy,” she murmurs as she lets him go to study his wet face. “It’s been too long.” </p><p>“Yeah,” he mumbles, wiping his eyes, grateful she doesn't say anything about them, about the shuddering jump of his shoulders beneath her palms, about the snot on her collar. “Way too long.” </p><p>When she holds him at arm’s length to examine, there’s a pitying expression flickering over her face, a dark ring of worry muddying her clear blue eyes like soap scum around a drain. It hurts to be seen—to be seen <em>through, </em>so Arthur uncomfortably wriggles out from beneath the gentle spread of her hands. “I, um, came to get my guitar,” he mumbles. </p><p>“Right, of course,” she says after shaking her head, guiding him inside and plastering on a smile. “Stay for something to eat, though? I was just making an early dinner.” </p><p>And Arthur’s not sure <em>why, </em>but he nods. Maybe because he’s lonely. Because his new friends sort of suck, and he blew things with Vivian and made shit awkward and too real with Mithian and doesn’t want to do the same with Elena, who is his last remaining chance at having a real girlfriend the way Merlin apparently has a real girlfriend. Maybe because his father is out of town at a conference as usual and Morgana moved out into an apartment with Gwen a few months ago and he’d otherwise be alone in the vast, echoing cavern of his house if he didn't stay, just him and the cleaning staff, who all still think he’s sixteen, at best. Maybe because Hunith is not only the closest thing he has to a mother but the closest thing he has to <em>Merlin, </em>and he is so fucking worn down from pretending he doesn't miss Merlin with the whole of his fucking heart that he just can’t do it anymore. </p><p>So he follows her into the kitchen, struck dumb by the comforting, familiar smell of Merlin’s house. Lived in, human, <em>homey</em>. Herbs and chopped onions, the ghost of the morning coffee, something spicy and musk-warm like incense or a burning candle. He’s instinctually drawn toward the hallway that leads to Merlin’s room, but he stops himself, lingering awkwardly in the door frame instead, throat thick as he tries to swallow the persistent lump in it down, bitter as a dark beer. </p><p>“You can go in if you like,” Hunith says, like she <em>knows</em>. “I do sometimes, when I’m missing him. You also left a shirt last time you were over that ended up in the laundry, and I washed it. It’s folded on his bed.” </p><p>“Oh,” Arthur manages to say, grip white-knuckled as he holds onto the moulding. “Thanks, Mrs. E.” </p><p>It feels <em>invasive, </em>to open the door to Merlin’s room knowing very well that he wouldn’t want him in here right now. But Arthur has nothing anymore, not Merlin’s texts, not his friendship, not his kisses—even his fake ones. He has to forage for scraps where he can, until Hunith realizes what happened and slowly cuts him loose so that he drifts out to sea like a cracked-hull dinghy, steadily sinking to the seafloor the further the wind blows him from her shores, because when it comes down to blood, he’s not <em>actually</em> her son. Only her son’s best friend. But he’s not even that anymore, so. He’s here on borrowed time. </p><p> He holds his breath as the door creaks open. Then, he tentatively inhales. </p><p>It smells stale and dusty and not at all like Merlin, but it <em>looks</em> relatively untouched. His bed is just a mattress on the floor, dark sheets and a darker bedspread, fairy lights twisted around the windows festooned in once-black curtains now sun-faded to a dusty brown. The walls are papered in magazine clippings and posters and tickets to shows, and Arthur is almost surprised to see Merlin didn’t peel any of them off and bring them to school. He’s probably making new memories to immortalize there, seeing new shows, getting into new bands, buying new issues of <em>AMP </em>and <em>AP </em>and <em>Revolver </em>to thumb through and tear pictures from. He has a whole fucking <em>life</em> there in San Francisco that Arthur is barred from, so who knows what’s on his walls, now. </p><p>Uther never let Arthur and Morgana decorate their rooms to their own standards, which means there are only two or three <em>framed, </em>Pendragon-sanctioned band posters on Arthur’s bedroom wall, next to some nondescript art that's been there since he was a baby. As a result, he’s always preferred Merlin’s bedroom—the darkness of it, the messiness, the idyllic teenage floor strewn in clothes and CDs and school papers, left to fester for months instead of being tidied up by a maid every day. Merlin must have cleaned it before he moved out because that’s the only thing that’s observably different: the floor is clear, so Arthur doesn't have to pick and totter his way across it in order to reach the wall opposite Merlin’s desk, where there’s a collage of disposable camera pictures all pinned to a segment of tattered corkboard. </p><p>And he’s seen them a thousand times, but today, the sight hits him square in the chest like it’s the first time: every single fucking picture is of the two of them, together. Merlin and Arthur in line for a show outside the Wiltern, Arthur’s arm slung around Merlin’s back, making a fist in his Jimmy Eat World shirt. Merlin and Arthur on Splash Mountain at Disneyland, neither of them screaming because they thought screaming was lame, even though the drop scared the shit out of them. Merlin and Arthur in the bleachers of a Dodger game that they won tickets to once and felt obligated to go to, even though neither of them knew <em>shit</em> about baseball. Merlin and Arthur at someone’s birthday party, sitting away from the crowd, laughing at something, and <em>fuck—</em>Merlin’s smile is the sharpest, cruelest slice of white in this otherwise shadow-sick room. </p><p>He looks so young. His face all angles, his ears too big and his cheekbones too sharp and his sweatshirt so fucking oversized that it’s like a dress on him, nearly down to the torn knees of his jeans. He must be thirteen here, fourteen at most, and for a moment, Arthur wishes he cold travel back in time so fucking <em>badly </em>to this particular day, just so Merlin will look at him that way again over melted ice cream grainy with cake crumbs. Wide-eyed, single-minded, brilliant. Gaze burning with an adoration bordering on reverence, his and his alone. Arthur wishes he was that ruddy-faced kid again, good at sports, every girl’s favorite, fastest mile time in the seventh grade, brand new Vans with flame laces, invincible. Merlin’s and Merlin’s alone. </p><p>He didn’t <em>think</em> Merlin would take any of these pictures to school, not really. They’re embarrassing, he looks stupid and babyish, and if <em>Arthur</em> was going somewhere to make new friends and recreate himself from dust, he certainly wouldn’t advertise his bad 2002 hair <em>either, </em>but. It still clutches at his heart to see them left here, arrested in time like a roadside memorial, like they’re two boys who died in a drunk-driving accident and don’t exist anymore. Two boys to mourn. To eventually be forgotten. </p><p>It’s like Merlin didn’t <em>want</em> any part of him there in San Francisco, any evidence of their friendship, and Arthur is only just realizing how <em>long</em> that was his plan. How he was already pulling away that night at Chantry, content to let Arthur drown while he sat on the shore, waving goodbye from afar. </p><p>Arthur rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and wonders why all this <em>literally</em> feels like dying. </p><p>He ends up on Merlin’s bed and then <em>in</em> it. The pillow and bedspread don’t smell like him at all, so he hopes that by stripping the top sheet and climbing in, he’ll find some fragment of what they used to be. Of the Merlin who loved him, of the Merlin who used to lie with him here, their legs tangled up messily while they shared a joint and walkman headphones, the Merlin who’d offer his bed and lend his PJs and even let Arthur use his toothbrush when he decided to spend the night unexpectedly. <em>His</em> Merlin. </p><p>All Arthur finds is a black hair clinging to the sheets and the lingering memory of detergent, faded to floral near-nothingness the more he inhales it, searching, searching. </p><p>He flicks on the fairy lights and lies there in the faint imprint of Merlin’s body for a long time, gaze sweeping the familiarity of the room and taking inventory of every difference. A plastic drawer set missing from the corner. Some rearranged books. Half the clothes missing from the closet so that it looks empty, hollow. No record player. Eventually his eyes get heavy, and he half-dreams of Merlin coming back, opening the door, and climbing onto the bed beside him, telling him <em>I didn’t mean any of it, I had to tell you that shit for your own good, but I didn't mean it, Arthur, I’m sorry, and I’m back, and I’m not going anywhere. </em>And in his dream, Arthur pretends he knew the whole time and was never mad, never scared, never heartbroken. <em>I know, Merlin. M’not an idiot. Did you really think I’d fall for that? </em></p><p>But when he lurches awake at the soft rap of Hunith’s knuckles against the door telling him dinner is ready, he’s alone again, and Merlin is nowhere to be found. </p><p>She’s made pasta and meat sauce, and it’s <em>amazing</em> because it didn’t come from the freezer or the microwave, which is all he’s been able to manage for himself, lately. Morgana used to order in and cook a lot, and he would pick at her leftovers, but that feels <em>impossible</em> to do for himself now, and he didn’t even realize how fucking hungry for real food he was. He puts a ton of parmesan powder on the mountain of spaghetti and wolfs down two plates as he and Hunith talk about anything but the past. She asks him about his job, his family, his sister, and he politely volunteers enough information to get by without revealing anything too blood-soaked and raw. <em>I’m lonely. I’m terrible at dating girls. I drink too much. Everything hurts. My job is so boring, and I’m expected to do it for the rest of my fucking life. All I can think about is the day Merlin comes back, until I remember that he doesn’t want to see me, and then I just feel like sleeping. Like dying. </em></p><p>But Hunith has those magical mom-senses, and she cocks her head and reads his mind and says, “In two days, Merlin’s driving down.” </p><p>Arthur accidentally bites his tongue, and it hurts so badly that he sees white for a second, reeling with pain until his vision clears. “Oh, yeah?” he says eventually, a very poor attempt at feigning nonchalance because of course he <em>knows</em> exactly when Merlin is coming back. He looks at the calendar every day and hurts over it. </p><p>“Mmmhm. He’ll be excited to see you. He misses you, Arthur. He told me,” she says, voice quiet and measured, like perhaps she is telling him a secret, relaying information that was not necessarily hers to share freely. </p><p>Arthur’s gaze snaps up. <em>No, he doesn’t,</em> he almost says. <em>He hates me. He doesn’t want to talk to me. He dumped me. </em>But instead, he swallows thickly, fighting back an onslaught of tears as he bites out a disbelieving, “He told you that?” </p><p>She nods, frowning. There’s a long moment of silence, the only sound the thrum of the fridge and her fork clicking against her plate, and eventually she takes a deep breath. “Are you two fighting?” she asks then, a worried line creasing through her brow as her gaze drops to her food. It’s an expression Merlin makes sometimes, and Arthur tears his eyes away, pulse skittering along at the reminder. At the feeling of terrible scrutiny. </p><p>“No,” he says, before he realizes that he doesn’t want to lie. Not to Hunith, anyway, who is making such an effort not to lie to him. “I don’t know. It’s not a <em>fight, </em>it’s—I don’t know,” he awkwardly repeats, rubbing his face. “He doesn’t want to be my friend anymore,” he eventually settles on. </p><p>“Did he say that to you?” Hunith asks. </p><p>“Pretty much. He said he needed space.” </p><p>“I’m sure that's hard to give him,” she murmurs sympathetically, reaching across the scuffed dining room table and squeezing Arthur’s forearm. “You two have been so close for so long. But Arthur—wanting space is not the same as ending a friendship. Give him time. I’m sure he will want to talk to you about what’s going on in more detail when he’s here, alright? But trust me. He misses you. This is hard for him, too.” </p><p>His eyes are watery all over again, his throat bobbing furiously as he tries to swallow an aching sob. It just sticks in his throat, though, sharp and three-sided like a fucking Dorito or something. “If it’s so <em>hard,</em> why did he <em>do</em> it?” he asks, hating how young and stupid his voice sounds. </p><p>Hunith squeezes his arm again before standing to methodically clear the table. “I don’t know. He doesn't tell me everything, and I’ve already said too much, I think. But I do <em>know</em> he’s a good boy, and he cares for you terribly, and that he will be home soon, and that it’s always easier to talk face to face than it is to do it over the phone, or email, or instant messenger, or whatever you kids talk on these days.” </p><p>Arthur rubs his face in his palms miserably, regretting all the pasta now that his gut is twisting up again. “Maybe,” he says, unconvinced. And he wants so <em>badly</em> to pry for more information. To beg her to tell him word for word every single thing Merlin has divulged to her regarding him. He just wants to <em>understand, </em>just wants to <em>know </em>what Merlin is thinking, at the same time he’s <em>terrified</em> of the truth. So instead, he swallows thickly, does their dinner dishes, hugs Hunith goodbye, and skates away by twilight. </p><p>He doesn’t realize that he’s forgotten the guitar and has to go back for it until he's a block or so away. As he loops around, he pretends he’s returning to Merlin's bed. Merlin’s bed where Merlin has slept, where he’s fucked himself, where he’s cried, where he’s stayed up all night on AIM with Arthur, talking him through homework. Merlin’s bed that doesn’t smell like him anymore, Merlin’s bed like a grave with black sheets like black dirt, layered in silent shovelfuls over a head bent in prayer. <em>Please, </em>Arthur thinks. But he doesn’t let himself think anything beyond that word. <em>Please. </em></p><p>—-</p><p>
  <em>2003 </em>
</p><p><em>Arthur’s not sure what wakes him up, but suddenly, he’s sitting bolt upright on Merlin’s floor, heart pounding loud enough that he feels like it’s </em>outside<em> him somehow. An insistent fist knocking furiously on the door, a car backfiring, a drum line at the homecoming game. He blinks in the darkness and tries to get his bearings, lifting an arm to rub the sleep from his eyes and shifting restlessly in the static cling of his sleeping bag. </em></p><p>
  
</p><p><em>But then his palm comes back alarmingly wet and tacky, and his heart only beats harder. “Merlin,” he says aloud, though too quietly to wake him up. He can hear his wheezing sleep-breaths, steady somewhere above Arthur, from the comfort of his bed. Arthur’s not sure he </em>actually<em> wants to rouse him anyway—he mostly just wants to remind himself that he’s </em>there. <em>That he isn't alone. </em></p><p>
  <em>After catching his breath, he staggers to clumsy feet and lets himself out of Merlin’s room, tiptoeing down the hallway and strategically skipping the creaky floorboards he knows are there because he’s slept over a hundred times, at least. After feeling along the wall for the doorknob, he lets himself in the bathroom and flicks on the light. His eyes sting in the harsh glare, and he stands there for a few seconds, sticky hand over sticky face beneath the floppy wing of his hair, blocking it all out until he feels brave enough to deal with whatever is all over him. </em>
</p><p><em>Finally, Arthur blinks at his reflection in the mirror, stomach in knots. There’s blood smeared across his face—or something like it. It’s brown now, looks like barbecue sauce clotted in globs on his lips and chin, crusted into a patina beneath his nose. </em>What the hell, <em>he thinks, blood icing over in anxiety. Something is clearly wrong with him. He probably has to go to the hospital. His dad is going to be so </em>mad. </p><p>
  <em>He stumbles back to Merlin’s room, knee-walking his way onto the bed to shake him awake. “Hey,” he hisses, needling a finger between the slats of Merlin’s ribs, the whole of Merlin’s body warm and drowsy as he squirms. “Wake up. S’an emergency.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>That gets Merlin sitting up with a cough, grappling for Arthur in the dark. “What? A fire? A burglar?” he mumbles sleepily. “What?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I woke up, and there was something brown all over my face,” Arthur explains. “Maybe blood.” </em>
</p><p><em>Merlin groans, then reaches over to his bedside lamp and flicks it on after a few failed attempts. Together they squint in the darkness, knees touching through layers of blanket. Merlin studies him, head cocked and a pillow crease through his pale cheek. “You didn’t wash it off?” he asks, a note of judgement to his voice because Merlin </em>always<em> thinks he knows better. Sometimes he’s right, but usually not. It’s sort of comforting, though, the way he </em>just <em>believes </em>he <em>is. Like he knows what Arthur needs. Like he’s in charge of such things, and they are his responsibility. </em></p><p>
  <em>“No! I wanted to, like. Preserve the evidence.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re stupid,” Merlin mumbles, flopping back down onto the bed. “Taste it,” he says then. “If it tastes like copper, it’s blood.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Arthur makes a face but eventually does what he's told, tongue flicking out to the corner of his mouth to lick the crust away. It tastes like sucking on a penny, and he hates it. “Definitely blood,” he admits, hacking. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merlin rolls his eyes. “Arthur, you probably just got a bloody nose.” </em>
</p><p><em>Arthur makes a scoffing sound in his throat, heart skidding. “I don’t </em>get<em> those.” </em></p><p><em>“You’ve </em>never<em> gotten a bloody nose?” Merlin asks skeptically, taking a deep, labored breath before kicking his blankets off and standing on coltish, unsteady legs. This year, his legs just keep getting longer and longer but never thicker, they look like twigs in his Jack Skellington PJ bottoms. Arthur’s pretty sure he could cup the whole circumference of Merlin’s thigh between his joined hands. “I thought everyone got them. Especially in the winter, when it's dry like this.” </em></p><p>
  <em>“I have one of those things that puts mist in the air to keep my room from getting dry. Um. A humidifier,” Arthur explains matter of factly, starting to feel really stupid about waking Merlin up in the middle of the night because of a fucking bloody nose, which is apparently very normal. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Of course you do,” Merlin grumbles before carding long fingers through his hair so that it stands up in back. Arthur swipes in the air to smooth it back in place, but Merlin is just out of reach. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He leaves for the bathroom and comes back with tissues and baby wipes, which Arthur thinks is a little excessive, but whatever. He hasn’t had a proper nanny in a few years, and it’s sort of nice to be fussed over. Even if Merlin is the one doing the fussing. </em>
</p><p><em>He’s </em>acting<em> put upon, but Arthur knows him well enough to suspect that he’s eating this shit up. Merlin </em>loves<em> being the one who knows better, the one who’s got the solutions, the supplies. There’s a smug smile he’s trying to pinch from his lips as he kneels beside Arthur on the bed, and maybe that’s why Arthur </em>lets<em> him wad up a baby wipe in his hands and start dabbing the crust of blood away instead of insisting he do it himself. Arthur sits there holding his breath, gaze averted and fixed on the sheets as Merlin gently cups the back of his skull with a big palm and wipes him down. The touch is gentle, lingering, and Arthur settles into it, wishing it could go on like this for fucking ever. He doesn’t remember the last time someone </em>touched<em> him this way—took care of him. It makes his throat thick, so he swallows the lump down stubbornly. </em></p><p>
  <em>“Blood takes forever to come off once it’s dried,” Merlin says at some point, voice soft and cryptic. </em>
</p><p><em>“Sounds like an Alkaline Trio lyric,” Arthur offers, closing his eyes. The baby wipe is cold, but Merlin is warm—his sleepy breath, his fingers digging into Arthur’s scalp, the whole of his skinny body so </em>close<em>. Merlin is small, but he generates so much heat. Sometimes, Arthur just wants to burn up in it—forget the rest of the world and sink into that comforting halo, hot and steady. </em></p><p>
  <em>The world smells like metal and baby powder, and so suddenly, he’s choking on a hot torrent of scarlet. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It drips on the bedspread. “What the hell,” Arthur sputters, startling away from the sight of his own blood. </em>
</p><p><em>“You’re bleeding again. Hold on,” Merlin mumbles, handing him one of the tissues he brought, like he </em>knew<em> this would happen because he's a fucking bloody nose expert or something. “Here.” </em></p><p>
  <em>Arthur takes it, presses it to his upper lip as he pinches at the bridge of his nose, and tilts his head back so that the blood drips back into his throat, scalding and acrid. He coughs, then gags. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t do that, they only do that in movies,” Merlin tells him, manipulating Arthur’s position so that he's bending his head between his knees, blood pouring out and onto the ground between his bare feet. “Let it drip. And put pressure here,” Merlin murmurs, guiding Arthur’s fingers lower. “Breathe through your mouth.” </em>
</p><p><em>In and out, in and out. Arthur does what he's told, and Merlin makes a tissue graveyard on the floorboards beneath the steady drip to catch the incessant leaking. Arthur watches the crisp crumpled white give way to sudden crimson, and it’s fucking surreal, to know that it’s </em>his<em> blood. That it’s from </em>his<em> body. He hasn’t honest-to-god bled this much in a long time—not since he cut his arm doing hurdles in the fourth grade, the toe of his sneaker catching the top of it and sending him skidding into the pavement. There had been blood everywhere, and he distantly remembers the girls in his PE class screaming and crying as he laid there and blinked up at the sky, waiting for the pain to sink in. </em></p><p>
  <em>Finally, his nose stops dripping. He wipes it, blows it, and Merlin dutifully collects all the soaked tissues from the ground before wiping up the splatters. Arthur should thank him, probably, but it’s hard to make his throat work when it feels coated in a metallic slick. He coughs instead, spits into the single remaining tissue he has crushed to nothing in his palm. “Do you feel better?” Merlin asks, sounding exhausted as he dumps the tissues into the wastepaper basket and wipes his hands on his PJ bottoms. “Not worried you’re dying anymore?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Nope,” Arthur says with a yawn. “Just tired.” </em>
</p><p><em>“Me, too,” Merlin mumbles, standing there at the side of the bed, staring at the way Arthur is crawling under the sheets of </em>his<em> bed, settling contentedly into the heap of </em>his<em> pillows. “M’not gonna sleep in your sleeping bag, though,” he offers reproachfully. </em></p><p>
  <em>“Of course not,” Arthur snaps, patting the still-warm spot on the bed beside him, where Merlin had been twitching with dreams when he woke him. “M’not an asshole.” </em>
</p><p><em>“Oh, right, you’re not an asshole, sure.“ Merlin grumbles. “Silly me.” But then he flicks off the lights before gingerly climbing in beside Arthur, bed bowing then righting itself as he lies down. The abrupt darkness makes Arthur’s heart pick up in his chest, racing against his breastbone. It’s oppressive and black, but it feels </em>thick<em> with possibility, thrumming around them as Merlin rolls almost imperceptibly closer, close enough that their bodies knock together, the mattress creaking beneath their newly combined weight. “Were you cold on the floor or something?” he asks then, voice barely above a scraping whisper. </em></p><p><em>Arthur’s gut twists. He wasn't cold—he doesn’t </em>think <em>he was cold. But he started bleeding without warning for the first time in his life down there, so who knows. Mostly he doesn’t want Merlin to ask questions about the new sleeping arrangement because he doesn’t want to </em>think<em> too hard about it, doesn’t want to need a </em>reason<em> to get in bed with Merlin—they’re best friends. He just wiped Arthur’s </em>blood<em> off the floor with his bare hands and gently dabbed his face clean. Surely, that’s more intimate than lying a few inches away in the silent choke of darkness. Surely, Arthur doesn't have to </em>tell <em>him how fucking good it feels to be touched—how desperately he craves it. He’s the one with money and a humidifier, so he feels like he’s not allowed to complain about being lonely and unhugged. “Go to sleep, Merlin,” he says instead of answering. </em></p><p>
  <em>Merlin says nothing, and eventually Arthur nods off curled against his back, fingers loosely twisted in the cotton of his shirt, skin-warm and soft. When he wakes up in the morning sometime after dawn, there’s blood on his face again, crusted and itchy on his cheek and lips. But Merlin’s arm is curled tight and solid around his waist, breath hot on the back of his neck, and Arthur doesn’t want to mess that up, so. He stays, breathing through his mouth, blinking in the gray spill of morning light, and soaking up the feel of Merlin pressed against him, sardine-tight, summer-warm. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. I WANT TO WAKE UP NAKED NEXT TO YOU KISSING THE CURVE OF YOUR CLAVICLE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HELLO EVERYONE!! SHE'S HERE!!! THE CHAPTER YOU HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR!!! The tension break! The climax! I won't call it a resolution because there's loads more angst to come, sadly, but THIS AT LEAST is gonna answer some questions for you all, I think. </p><p>So full disclosure--this has been a tough week or so for me in regards to the past!!! Lots of media has been reminding me of high school, and I went through some old stuff from my childhood room, and I was taking with my wife about mix CDs and how cool they were and how much we wish them THE SAME DAY my BIG ex (the high school ex this fic is about in many ways, and that all my teen fic is about,  tbh) texted me to ask me if I still had the old mix CD they made me? (I did. I listened to it. It hurt, but in a good way). So updates might be coming a little slower on this fic as I recover. I also live on a farm and have big seasonal farm things happening right now, and I'm also a tattoo artist and got vaccinated and am opening up shop after a LITERAL YEAR off and yeah!!! lots of things!! just coming together and converging. I have one complete and edited chapter after this one ready to post, and the rest of the story is in unedited bits and outlined. I don't feel ready to write it this instant, but I will, and I miss these characters terribly. I just wanted to give you all this chapter before the inevitable break that is going to happen. (Or not, maybe I'll go crazy and finish it in a night, this happens sometimes). </p><p>I love you all and love your comments and love your teenage pain, and am having such a wonderful time cradling it between my palms. This has been a delightful posting experience, getting to share the healing experience with you all, so thank you so much.</p><p>TWS for this chapter: the flashback contains more explicit homophobia that we've seen in this story thus far, so read with caution.  </p><p>WITHOUT FURTHER ADO!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2008</p><p>Arthur’s room is gray and cold when he twitches awake to the sound of something scraping against the oak outside his bedroom. He rolls over, hiding his face in his pillow. It’s probably a stupid squirrel, even though it sounds so horribly similar to Merlin’s weight, the way he’d clutch and scramble up the footholds before struggling to open the window and climb in. So naturally Arthur thinks he’s fucking <em>imagining it, </em>wishing it into existence from his well of undiluted longing when he hears the scuffing sound of the screen popping off, followed by the telltale click of the latch. </p><p>He sits up suddenly, blinking hazily in the dawn-crisp light and whipping around to stare at his window. </p><p>Arthur is dreaming again. That's the only explanation for the soft rap of knuckles on dirty, grime-streaked glass. The only explanation for the gut-punching image of Merlin crouched and shivering outside in the tree, eyes downcast and lip pulled between his teeth as he pries the window up and crawls in. He’s a dream. An apparition. Arthur made this happen by holding onto that stupid piece of stuffing, by climbing into Merlin’s bed yesterday and finding the ghost-shape of his body, for wanting this to happen with such pathological hunger that he started to fucking hallucinate it.</p><p>Feet hit the floor as a body bends and twists at the waist to shimmy in, and just like that, this possibly Not Real Merlin is standing in Arthur’s bedroom as if he never left. </p><p>“Hi,” he says awkwardly, almost—apologetically. His voice wavers, and then he turns away to replace the screen and force the window back down. He’s not disappearing, though, no matter how many times Arthur shakes his head and rubs his eyes and blinks like a cartoon character or something. Merlin is <em>here. </em>Solid. Flesh and blood. Not just in the Valley but in Arthur’s fucking <em>bedroom, </em>wearing a zip-up hoodie over a band t-shirt like always. Arthur stares, and stares some more, and maybe eventually he will remember how to talk. In the meantime, Merlin stands against the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets, eyes sapphire-bright and impossible. “Good morning, I guess,” he eventually mumbles. </p><p>Arthur sputters before the sound actually forms words. “What are you <em>doing</em> here?!” he blurts. <em>You’re supposed to want space. You’re supposed to be mad at me. You’re not due back here until forty-eight hours from now. Not that I’m counting. </em></p><p>Merlin’s face, which had been a mask of uncharacteristic optimism, flickers and falls. He fiddles with a loose string from the hem of his hoodie and takes a deep breath, like he’s about to plunge into water, jump from Hermit Falls into the crystalline snowmelt at Chantry just like last summer. “I, um. I took my finals early and left as soon as I could. Finished yesterday and drove all night long, and, uh, now I’m here,” he explains. Like it <em>clarifies</em> anything, other than <em>how</em> he arrived. Not <em>why. </em></p><p>Arthur furrows his brow, then draws his sheets tighter around himself, suddenly very aware of the fact that he was sleeping shirtless and now he's exposed. “You drove all night long,” he repeats. “And climbed in <em>my</em> window.” </p><p>“Yes,” Merlin murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck, gaze skittering around the room, loose and unfocused and <em>nervous, </em>maybe. “I drove all night,” he repeats. “To your house.” </p><p>Arthur’s heart starts to pound as Merlin takes a tentative step closer, followed by another before he carefully lowers himself onto the edge or the bed. It whines and gently bows beneath his weight, and Arthur is <em>fairly</em> sure that apparitions can’t do <em>that, </em>so. This is probably happening, and the realization makes his stomach lurch, his mouth go dry. <em>Merlin. </em>Arthur cannot stop <em>staring</em> at him, noticing things. The way he’s a little broken out and pink at his hairline, the way his chest seems more filled out than the last time he saw him, probably from all that <em>trail running </em>he’s supposedly been doing. He also looks impossibly tired: shadows beneath his eyes, cheeks hollow as he sucks at the inside of them, which he always does whenever he’s not telling the whole truth. Arthur takes in every fragile and fleeting detail as if Merlin is a well, and his gaze is a thing that can drink. <em>You are the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen, </em>he wants to say, but he knows he can’t, because—because. That’s just not something you can <em>say aloud</em> to your friend who may or may not be here to break up with you formally, and in person. He should ask <em>what do you want, Merlin, </em>but he can’t make his throat work. All he can do is stare, and blink, and frown, until something short circuits in the wreck of his brain and so suddenly, he loses control. </p><p>Without even realizing what he’s doing, Arthur is forcing out a mumbled curse and reaching for Merlin, grabbing his shoulders and dragging him down into his arms, crushing his narrow body in a punishing hug. It’s a fierce pressure, but he’s not even angry anymore, not really. The fury and hurt drained right out of his body the moment he accepted that Merlin was really <em>here, </em>replaced with a profound, aching relief that swells in Arthur’s chest and flutters with a foolish hope, bird’s wings rustling against the bars of a cage. He presses his face into Merlin’s oily hair and sucks him in. “Come here,” he says, even though they’re so close that Merlin couldn't wiggle more tightly into his arms if he tried.</p><p>He doesn’t try, though. He’s limp, unresisting, boneless. He doesn’t even really hug Arthur back, just lies there quiet and soft, his hand prudent where it gently cups Arthur’s shoulder blade, thumbing lightly over the shape of it, feather-weak and almost <em>regretful. </em>It’s a goodbye touch, and it makes Arthur’s heart stutter in panic as he grips him tighter. <em>Don’t say it. Don’t you fucking go. “</em>Arthur,” Merlin whispers, and there’s something thorned in his voice, like an admonishment. </p><p>“Shut up,” Arthur grits out, squeezing him so tightly that a huff of air escapes his lips in a quiet gasp. “I am <em>so</em> pissed at you. Or I was. I dunno. I can’t even be mad anymore because I’m just so goddamned happy to see you.” </p><p>Merlin chokes out a helpless laugh against Arthur’s throat, and it’s a sad, wet, broken thing. Still, it’s warm against his skin, and maybe that counts for something. Merlin’s fingers flicker against the angle of Arthur’s scapula as he mumbles, “Arthur, I have to tell you some things.” </p><p>“Okay,” Arthur says, shutting his eyes, smelling Merlin in greedy, desperate lungfuls. Fuck. He wants to die here. He would peel back to hold Merlin at arm’s length and look at him to make sure he’s real, but then he wouldn’t be able to sniff his dirty hair, so he ultimately decides not to. Still, it's a tough call. He wants too many things at once. </p><p>“You might be mad again after I tell you,” Merlin says, voice muffled, hot and breathy and trapped against Arthur’s bare shoulder. “You definitely won’t want to hug me anymore.” </p><p>“Fuck you,” Arthur says. “I sincerely doubt it.” Still, his stomach swoops unpleasantly at the thought of whatever Merlin could possibly be so worried to tell him. What new, fucked up, hurtful thing he’s gonna confess. As his guts gather defensively, he admits, “I already know about your girlfriend. Your mom told me.” </p><p>Merlin shakes his head and pulls away, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. It’s only then that Arthur realizes they’re trembling. “That’s over,” Merlin tells him before sniffling and pasting on a fake, hard-edged smile. “It was, um. I don’t know. A failed experiment.” </p><p>He’s close enough that Arthur can smell the gas station coffee on his breath beneath the bite of Trident gum, can see the way the tops of his ears are flushed pink. But still, it’s not close enough. He wants to crawl inside Merlin’s ribcage. He wants to thumb over the bruise-dark half-moons under his eyes, he wants to lick the shadows away. He wants to look at Merlin this close up forever and fucking ever, dip toward him until he blurs indistinguishably with the gray-blue of Arthur’s sheets, a puddle he can bathe in, a petal he can press between pages and keep forever. <em>Don’t say it, </em>he thinks. <em>Don't you fucking go. </em>“Well,what do you have to tell me, then?” he makes himself ask, even though he’s fucking <em>dreading </em>it. </p><p>Merlin’s eyes are wet and glistening, but he rubs them before they overflow, rubbing the tears into nothingness with  tremulous fingers as he brings his knees up between their bodies to force a wedge of distance. Arthur presses against the jut of bone, as close as Merlin will let him be. “Ugh, right. Are you ready?” he asks. </p><p>“I guess,” Arthur breathes, terrified at the same time he’s almost <em>relieved. </em>At least they’re <em>talking. </em>At least Merlin is <em>here. </em>At least, after today, he will <em>know</em> what the fuck is going on. “Just don’t—,” he chokes out before cutting himself off. <em>Promise you won’t leave me again. Promise me this isn’t the end. I get that I need you more than you need me, but just. Don’t leave for good. Let me have a little bit of you, still</em>. Arthur chokes it all down, heart thudding so hard that he feels himself pulsing with it, vibrating in his sheets. “Is this the end of our friendship?” he manages to ask, voice coming out clipped and reedy. </p><p>Merlin, who has been staring at his own hands as they tangle in his sweatshirt strings, casts his gaze up to Arthur and holds him there for a moment, pinned through with red-rimmed, tear-slick blue. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t want it to be. But it’s going to be up to you.” </p><p>Arthur swallows, heart thudding. “Okay, then it's not,” he promises. “It’s just not, if it’s up to me. You’re my best friend, and—,” Arthur stops, pulse speeding as he thinks it because he’s never said it out loud before, and he <em>knows</em> that’s because it's not a <em>normal</em> thing, he’s broken, it’s <em>different, </em>but he needs Merlin to <em>know— “</em>and I love you. So. We’re friends, no matter what, okay?” </p><p>Merlin’s eyes are so wide, so pale, so glistening. He rubs his palms into the tear tracks on his face before flashing a tight, panicked smile up at the ceiling, something desperate drawing his features into a resolute mask before he says in a thick voice, “I want so badly to believe that.” </p><p>Arthur reaches out and grabs his wrist, squeezes it tight enough to slow the frantic sluice of his blood, if only for a moment. “Believe it,” he says through his teeth. “<em>Please, </em>Merlin, whatever it is, just tell me, I need—”</p><p>Merlin closes his eyes, and Arthur’s voice dies in his throat at the way his lashes flicker against pale, salt-sticky cheeks. “Okay then,” Merlin says, sucking in a shuddering breath. “Um. For starters, I’m gay.” </p><p>Arthur stares, and feels nothing. Not even with his fingers still curled into the pulse of Merlin’s suicide vein, sweet and firm. It takes a few seconds for the prickling to eclipse his scalp, for his blood to rush in his ears and deafen him. <em>Oh. </em>That. </p><p>He’s not surprised—not exactly. He’s <em>less</em> surprised than he was to hear about Merlin’s failed experiment of a girlfriend, anyway, but there’s still some sort of delayed shock washing over his body in slow, chilling waves. This probably means Merlin is dating his hot roommate who trail runs. <em>Lance. </em>And Arthur <em>hates</em> this realization, hates that it makes him feel shaky and sick all over with something like anger or more—more like jealousy. He swallows it down anyway, determined to be mature and supportive or whatever else it takes to keep Merlin talking. He nods furiously to compensate, tearing his gaze away from the perfect pink of Merlin’s mouth so that he doesn't have to think about some other guy kissing him. “Okay,” he says, trying his fucking hardest to keep any feeling from infecting his voice. “And?” </p><p>Merlin sucks in a deep, rattling breath. Then he covers his face in his clawed hands, chest rising and falling rapidly, heart beating with such force that Arthur can sense it, can <em>hear</em> it. He wants to lay his palm over the fevered thunder, wants to cup the muscle between his palms and squeeze until it slows down. He wants to tell Merlin the <em>truth, </em>which is that it’s <em>fine, </em>whatever it is. There’s nothing in the world he could possibly say that would scare Arthur away for good. <em>Just don’t leave again. Don’t you fucking go.</em></p><p>Merlin’s voice is so small when he starts, a wavering thing like a candle flame exposed to a raw wind. “So. I’ve tried everything, Arthur,” he mutters, voice thick and inarticulate as it stretches over an aborted sob. “I tried to ignore it. Thought it might go away. Um. I ran from it, obviously. Thought the distance would make a difference, but it didn’t. I tried to push you away, but—everything just makes it worse. I don’t know what to do about it anymore,” he chokes out, each breath torn and ragged and wet, like the sails of a storm-battered ship. </p><p>Arthur feels crazy. He feels <em>lost. </em>He digs his nails into Merlin’s shoulder through his sweatshirt, wishing so badly for skin. “About <em>what?” </em>he begs. </p><p>And then the world cracks along a fissure, everything off balance, teetering, broken as it slides toward an exposed molten core. “I’m in love with you,” Merlin says, voice muffled through the splay of his fingers. “And it won’t go away.” </p><p>Arthur swallows, and swallows again. The words echo in his head like gunshots but not, like, <em>fatal</em> ones. More like those at the beginning of a horse race, signaling the adrenaline-sick <em>beginning</em> of something, the burst of bodies through open gates. <em>And away they go, down the stretch they come</em>, rooster tails of loose sand erupting from the clean cut of hooves. Finally, Merlin drops his hands to the jolting rise and fall of his chest and looks at Arthur with watery, pleading eyes. “Say something,” he whispers. “Please.” </p><p>Arthur blurts the first thing that comes into his mind, which is, brilliantly, “You are?” </p><p>Merlin's mouth twists, and he looks back up at the ceiling with a self-effacing cough. “Yes,” he sighs. “Since we were, like. Twelve.” </p><p>It hangs in the air, suspended and floating and fragile like soap bubbles. Arthur could reach out and pop them, and then, his fingers would be wet. </p><p><em>Merlin is gay and loves him. </em>So suddenly, Arthur wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to climb on top of Merlin and bite his shoulder <em>so fucking hard</em> for <em>scaring</em> him like that. For making him think— “Jesus Christ,” he spits out, scrubbing his hands over his flushed face, heart caffeine-jumpy in his chest, unpredictable like one of those mall kiosk toys that wind themselves up before flipping, unless they fall over and kick compulsively at the air instead, stuck. <em>Merlin is gay and loves him. </em>He rolls over, boxes Merlin in between his knees, and stares at him, studying his mouth with new, burning eyes. </p><p>Beneath him, Merlin just freezes like he’s waiting to be struck. </p><p>“You decided to tell me that <em>after</em> you skipped town and broke my <em>heart</em> and made me think you hated me?” Arthur bites out, wanting to touch Merlin so <em>badly</em> but not knowing <em>where—</em>he could push a thumb into the flicker of his throat, he could squeeze his narrow hips between the crush of his own knees, he could drop the whole of his weight down onto him—he could—“You’re such an <em>asshole,” </em>he says furiously, tongue flicking over his lips, gaze climbing every angle in Merlin’s face and trying to commit it to memory before he gives up. Instead, Arthur sucks in a ragged inhalation and kisses him. </p><p>It’s not like all the other times. No one is looking, not even in his imagination. It’s just Merlin trembling under him, Merlin’s mint and coffee breath and his dirty hair and his tired eyes and his insanely soft lips, pretty and pink and <em>parting, </em>letting Arthur in. </p><p>The slick of his mouth feels so fucking good that it stops Arthur’s heart, chokes him up. He cups Merlin’s cheek in one of his palms and thumbs too roughly over the bone, pulls him closer even as Merlin shivers and gasps, locking up and trying to twist away. Arthur holds him fast, traps him between his thighs. <em>Don’t say it. Don’t you fucking go.</em></p><p>Merlin chokes, huffing out shudders of breath against Arthur’s waiting lips as he murmurs, “Are you doing this because—”</p><p>“Because I’m fucking in love with you, too, <em>obviously</em>,” Arthur tells him, the words spilling out of him in a clumsy, unceremonious parade. Merlin deserves better, he deserves a love letter or a bouquet or roses or something, but he doesn’t have <em>time</em> for that right now, so he hopes this is enough. “God. I need you so <em>badly, </em>I thought I was going to <em>die</em> when you told me to get lost. I thought I was going to die when you went to college. I love you, and I should have told you ages ago but I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself, and—”</p><p>“Oh. Oh, <em>fuck,” </em>Merlin sobs, surging up to kiss Arthur fiercely, clutching at the back of his neck, tugging him down, digging his nails in before raking his hands through Arthur’s hair. They melt together, tongues converging in a mess of spit until Arthur relents and lets Merlin just <em>suck</em> on him in desperate pulses, bodies flush and shifting. Eventually he pulls away to breathe, eyes wild, lips swollen. “I thought you didn't know. I thought maybe I was crazy or that—that you’d never figure it out, and I was stupid for waiting around for you to—”</p><p>“No, I—<em>I </em>was stupid. I was the stupid one,” Arthur admits urgently, pressing foreheads together, gut twisting in a sudden lurch of shame. Everything is coming together, tumbling down the steepest and muddiest of hills to meet here, in the center of him. How badly he’s missed Merlin. How desperately he needs—<em>has always needed—</em> to be close to him. How <em>good</em> it feels to kiss him. How fucked up and bad and awkward it felt to try and kiss anyone <em>else</em>. How many <em>goddamned years</em> he’s been running from these truths, refusing to look at them dead on lest they assemble into a recognizable shape. How he’s always fucking <em>known, </em>on some level, which was why he had to keep running. But he’s done, now. He’s doubled over and gasping for breath, but he’s arrested in place. “M’so sorry.” </p><p>Merlin sinks into the anchor point, grinding their brows as he shakes his head, blinks back tears, grin sky-wide and wild. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn't have called you like that the other day, I <em>should</em> have told you the truth so fucking long ago, but—ugh, <em>Arthur.</em> Can I just—can I just kiss you, now?” he asks, gaze skittering down to lock on the gasping pout of Arthur’s lips. “I just want to kiss you.” </p><p>Arthur doesn't answer, he just licks his mouth before he catches Merlin’s, presses into it, stunned by the give, the heat, the slickness. At how all those other times, at parties, Merlin must have been holding <em>back </em>in an attempt to not give too much away because he’s <em>different</em> now. Sensitive and <em>dirty, </em>grinding against Arthur’s leg, using his teeth on his lips, moaning breathlessly into his mouth, rubbing all over his back and sides with firm, certain palms. It’s absolutely maddening, and Arthur keeps feeling like he’s falling, heart stopping at each sound Merlin makes, stuck on the slow, filthy drag of his hard cock against the flexed plane of his thigh. He feels <em>drunk, </em>actually, drunk on the thrill of being allowed to <em>touch</em> Merlin without being terrified that he’s crossing some unspoken line. He strokes through his hair, smoothes down his ribs, hooks his thumbs daringly into the waistband of his sweats, even though it makes him white out in dizziness to even <em>think</em> about all that it suggests—all that lies beyond the frantic grind of their bodies amid the sea-toss of dirty sheets. </p><p>Merlin doesn’t let him think about it too much, though. It’s hard to think while you’re being kissed so deeply, hard to think when your skin is on fire. Arthur is totally lost in these kisses, brought back to earth only for brief, irritating moments when he notices Merlin’s sweatshirt zipper biting into his chest. “Can you ditch this?” he asks, fumbling between them to thumb over the skin-warm metal. “It hurts. Want you closer.” Merlin coughs out a disbelieving laugh before pulling back and unzipping, shrugging out of it clumsy and impatient. </p><p>Arthur has never <em>before</em> gotten dry-mouthed and overwhelmed by the sight of Merlin’s bare forearms, but he’s also never let himself <em>look at them</em> for as long as he’s wanted to. Never let himself grip them and wrestle Merlin back down into the bed, his body thin but strong beneath Arthur’s, electric like a live wire. “Do you know how hot you are?” he huffs out between kisses, thumbing into the ditches of Merlin’s elbows, over the meager but sinuous flex of his biceps. “You’re so fucking hot.” </p><p>He <em>feels</em> Merlin’s face flush as he presses it to his throat, mouthing along the tendons there, and <em>fuck,</em> that’s a thing they can do, isn't it. Arthur nips at the hinge of Merlin’s jaw, licks hungrily into his pulse, so desperate to taste him, to fit the whole of him in his mouth no matter how impossible it is. “I’m not hot like you,” Merlin murmurs, palming down Arthur’s side to his hip, where his hand stills thoughtfully along the waistband of his sweats. It makes Arthur’s heart leap, his cock twitch. “Can I, um—I want to feel you. Like, all of you, on top of me, against me.” </p><p>“Fuck, yeah. Hold on,” Arthur murmurs, rolling his sweats down his thighs and kicking them off into a dirty lump in the sheets, too desperate for Merlin to be insecure about how he looks. He nips at Merlin’s throat and rubs his cock against the junction of his thighs where his own sweats are tented and wet as they cling to the crown of his cock. “Take yours off, too?” </p><p>Merlin does, and Arthur wants to <em>look</em> so badly, wants to roll Merlin out from under him and just stare and stare at all the things he’s tried to ignore for seven years, tried to notice a <em>normal</em> amount even though he had no fucking idea what that was because he’s never been normal about Merlin. The feeling of his body beneath him, though, hot and smooth, thighs spread wide enough to accommodate Arthur—fuck. It’s so brilliant and distracting that he forgets about literally everything else and collapses, giving Merlin his weight and touching him all over, their hips bucking together in messy, graceless tandem, and that’s <em>fine, </em>Arthur thinks, he can get off like this, there will be time for other shit later, but right now, he just wants to <em>feel</em> Merlin, his skin and his breath and—<em>fuck. </em>Jesus. Merlin tenses, whimpers, bites Arthur’s shoulder, and comes between them in a sudden hot slick. </p><p>Arthur yanks away and stares down between them gasping, the mess on their bodies, sweat and skin coated in pearlescent white shine, Merlin’s cock still hard and flexing, red and gorgeous. </p><p>Merlin is limp and breathless so it's easy to maneuver him where he wants him, so Arthur holds him down and ruts into the mess of his come, kissing him deep and hungry, and all it takes is a few desperate strokes to follow and finish. Merlin swallows his moan and sucks his lips for more, hands everywhere—Arthur’s hair, the back of his neck, the heaving expanses of his sides. “Sorry that was fast,” he murmurs, offering a dazed, sheepish smile that Arthur can’t stand not to bite. “M’not usually. Yeah.” </p><p>“S’okay. We got <em>that</em> out of the way so now we’re fit for more, I dunno. Advanced moves.” </p><p>Merlin snorts, lifting to peel his shirt off with some effort so that he can mop their come up. “It’s not skating, you know,” he says once he flops back down onto the bed.</p><p>“It’s sort of like skating in that I plan to be very good at it,” Arthur tells him, lifting his eyebrows and grinning. Merlin grins back but only for a moment before it falters, crumbling into something puzzled, <em>skeptical. “</em>What, you think I <em>won’t</em> be good at it?” Arthur asks, pouting and determined to prove Merlin otherwise. </p><p>“No, it’s not that,” Merlin mumbles, settling closer to Arthur, tentatively laying a hand on his chest and threading his fingers through the sparse golden hair there. He watches the motion, eyes flickering and dark. “I spent the whole seven-hour drive down here going over all the possibilities. Like, how you’d react, what you’d say, if I’d ever see you again. And I knew—I knew that there was a <em>chance</em> this could happen, but I didn’t let myself think about it, really, and I <em>definitely </em>didn’t think about the after part. Or you joking about gay sex. Or being. I don’t know. You just <em>letting </em>me touch you like this,” he explains, skimming his fingers up to Arthur’s throat and petting over the jut of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “Guess m’still sort of catching up.” </p><p>Arthur squeezes Merlin close, then kisses the top of his head. “It’s very like you to make something good into something to worry about,” he complains, even though he <em>gets</em> why Merlin does this sort of thing—it’s a defense mechanism. Arthur knows all about those. </p><p>“Okay, but can you blame me?” Merlin asks. “How was I <em>supposed </em>to think you’d react? It’s been <em>years</em> of sharing beds and making out at parties and fucking <em>wanting</em> you so bad, and it never, ever going anywhere, and I just thought—”</p><p>“No, m’sorry, you’re right,” Arthur interrupts to agree, voice low as he shuts his eyes, curls his arms tightly around Merlin, and holds him there against his chest, secure and constricting like he can make up for all the lost time and stupid denial and other shit he’s let keep them apart for so long because he was scared if he just <em>crushes</em> him enough. After a few quiet moments, Arthur risks asking, “What did you think I would do, though, when you told me? You didn’t <em>really</em> think I’d stop being friends with you over being <em>gay,</em> Merlin, did you?” </p><p>Merlin shrugs in the cage of Arthur’s arms. “I didn’t know. I thought maybe you’d try to be normal about it and pretend you didn’t care. Because you’re a good guy no matter how hard you try to convince people you’re an asshole, but. I knew it would never be the same. That it would be weird and awkward and shit. And I thought even if you <em>did</em> want me back, you’d—I dunno. Not be ready. Or that I’d just make you run harder or resent me for making you think about it.” </p><p>Arthur’s stomach crawls, skin suddenly prickling under the heat and solidity of Merlin’s body. “Maybe,” he mumbles, because on some level, he knows that Merlin is right. That he <em>has</em> been running, that he <em>hasn’t </em>been ready. “You know, I might have been like that if you’d told me awhile ago. I want to think I could’ve figured it out earlier, but I just—I don’t know. I sort of think I needed you to go away to college and tell me to fuck off in order for me to realize how fucking badly I needed you,” Arthur admits. “It still sucked so much, though.” </p><p>“I’m sorry it sucked,” Merlin sighs, turning his head to press a kiss to Arthur’s sternum. It makes his heart leap beneath his breastbone, like it's trying to get closer to Merlin’s lips. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I really didn’t. I <em>wanted</em> to tell you everything, but I just—it felt like survival, to push you away. Like I had to do it.” </p><p><em>“Well. </em>Thank you for coming back to me,” Arthur says, voice muffled in Merlin’s hair. “And, like. Don’t ever do that shit again.” </p><p>“I won't,” Merlin promises, the certainty back in his voice, taut and unwavering, as it should be. Then he tilts up and kisses Arthur, and it’s like a miracle all over again, every dark corner and labyrinthine passage suddenly illuminated in a fierce, golden glow. <em>Oh, </em>Arthur thinks for the thousandth time, finding answers with the tip of his tongue as it flicks over Merlin’s teeth. <em>This, all along. You, all along. </em></p><p>
  <em>——</em>
</p><p>
  <em>2006</em>
</p><p><em>It isn’t the </em>first <em>show Merlin and Arthur go to together, not by a long shot. But it’s the first since Arthur formally and officially got his driver’s license. Usually, they have to bribe Morgana to take them, and if she can’t rope Gwen in with the promise of a decent show, she’s grudging and sulky about it, sitting at some 24-hour diner drinking black coffee all night because she thinks most of the bands Arthur likes are lame and refuses to be seen paying to see them. And then, after it’s over, and he and Merlin stagger out sweat-soaked and adrenaline-high, she inevitably gets annoyed at them for chattering too loudly in the backseat on the drive home. So this is the first time they get to actually enjoy themselves without worrying about pissing Morgana off with their enthusiastic play-by-plays and setlist recreations. </em></p><p>
  <em>Arthur manages to not kill them on the way there, though he comes pretty close a few times. The show is at Chain Reaction, which is a tiny hardcore venue way the fuck out in Anaheim, stuffed unceremoniously between a laundromat and a sprawling parking lot surrounded in industrial sprawl. Arthur always feels like a badass when he sees a show at Chain, but mostly he’s glad he didn't have to break in his brand-new license hauling to Hollywood or the West Side or someplace tough. Merlin is easy to impress—they can speed on the highway and roll the windows down without getting sick in Sunset traffic, space a boundless thing above them, uninterrupted by high-rise apartments or the hulking skyscrapers of the downtown skyline. </em>
</p><p><em>The night feels alive with promise, somehow, everything crackling with untapped potential, static clinging to Arthur as they park and walk to the venue, static lifting the hairs on the back of his neck like there's a storm somewhere on the horizon. It smells like the ocean out here, even though the ocean is miles away, and he sucks it in, throwing an arm around Merlin’s neck and tugging him close, dragging him to the venue so they can get their tickets checked and their hands Xed. “Isn’t this fucking </em>great?” <em>he shouts, thumb pressed into the rush of Merlin’s pulse, this secret spot of warm skin beneath the hood of his sweatshirt. “That we don’t have to drop Morgana off at a Denny’s and hear her gripe about the lack of vegan options or whatever?” </em></p><p><em>“It’s pretty great,” Merlin admits, smile a slanted, lopsided thing. Arthur grins at him, unable to hold back the surge of feeling in his chest—he wants to </em>bite<em> Merlin—to tackle him to the ground. Get his fists in his clothes or something. Howl at the big summer moon. It feels so fucking </em>good<em> to be alone with him, to </em>know<em> his sister is locked in her room at home reading creepy occult books or whatever, instead of across the street like his fucking babysitter. It’s just him and Merlin, tonight, and the whole sea-smelling sky above Anaheim, every band shirt stapled to the wall of Chain Reaction like a jury. </em></p><p><em>Inside, it’s loud and smoky and smells like spilled beer. Arthur </em>likes<em> beer now, or he can force it down if he’s already a little drunk, but he still doesn’t dig the golden, yeasty stink of it, so he presses his face into Merlin’s hair instead to suck in his shampoo. Merlin squirms but does not pull away, and it makes Arthur wonder how much he can get away with tonight. Because this is what his life feels like, sometimes: a series of situations where he can either push Merlin to a breaking point or not. A contest to see how many times he can </em>touch<em> him and how irritating that touch can be. An endless chance to test how much prodding and digging Merlin can </em>take<em> before he decides Arthur is too much and shoves him off. </em></p><p><em>Arthur isn’t sure why he needs to do it, he just does. It’s a compulsion, some pathetic </em>tick-tick<em> drive, like a wound clock. It probably has to do with the shameful, long-buried fear that he doesn’t deserve real friends, and people only stick around for the sick benefits of having a Pendragon in their pocket, like Disney trips and BMW rides and three separate gaming consoles to play during sleepovers. Arthur </em>knows<em> Merlin isn’t one of these fake as fuck friends, but maybe he still worries about it, under everything. Maybe he feels like he’s got to push Merlin away repeatedly, just to prove to himself that he'll keep coming back. Maybe he feels like he has to hold him as closely as possible, just to make sure Merlin won't try and wiggle away from the suffocating grip. </em></p><p>
  <em>The floor is so close and tight that it’s impossible not to get caught in the pit when it opens up, even for the bands who aren’t headlining. Arthur and Merlin don’t know them, but they’re hard and fast and the energy is contagious, so they let themselves be pushed around and jostled until Arthur’s hair is dark with sweat and Merlin shucks his hoodie and ties it around his narrow waist, cheeks flushed. </em>
</p><p><em>Arthur never loses track of him. Even when the sea of bodies surges and tosses and carries Merlin tripping away from him for a moment, he doesn't lose sight of the pale column of his neck, the line of his profile, white and sharp like a message in a bottle bobbing in dark waters. He’s not even </em>watching<em> for him, really—he’s moshing along with the music and jumping up and down, throwing elbows like everyone else—it’s just that he </em>knows, <em>always, with that profound soul-knowing that people have when they spend all their time with another person. His breath is trained on Merlin and so is his heart. It’s like there's fishing line tying them together, thin and invisible as it twists through the crowd, binding. </em></p><p><em>That sort of inescapable knowledge </em>could <em>be annoying, but it feels good in practice, Arthur decides. He </em>likes <em>to be aware of Merlin at all times. The slender white whip of his spine, the boomerang angles of his arms always coming back to him, no matter how rough the floor gets, no matter how many bodies there are to swallow them up and spit them back up in dirty, sweat-slick boluses. </em></p><p>
  <em>In the tentative calm between songs, Arthur stumbles over to Merlin, makes a fist in the back of his shirt, and pulls him to his chest so that he can press his lips to the shell of his ear. “Hey,” he shouts. Under other circumstances, Merlin might cringe and duck away, but it’s a show so he’s gone deaf, too. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He tilts back into Arthur, soaked hair cold against his cheek. “What?” he shouts back. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Arthur never gets a chance to say what he was going to say because some big Orange County asshole with a shaved head and a script tattoo on his throat knocks into them, spits onto the floor at their feet. “Get out of here with that fag shit,” he snarls. “C’mon.” </em>
</p><p><em>Arthur just stares at first, wavering there still holding onto Merlin, like he thinks this guy </em>isn’t<em> referring to them. Like there are some other fags out in the middle of the pit to hate crime, or something. But the guy is </em>staring<em> at them, lip curled in disgust, and only </em>then<em> does Arthur fully realize that he’s got his hands all over Merlin, their bodies slatted together like Pringles in a canister. </em>Oh. <em>Right. This </em>looks<em> faggy to uptight douchebags because they don’t touch their best friends, they’re repressed and weird and have no idea what it’s like to know where someone is in relation to your own body no matter what because you’re </em>that <em>close. It looks gay on paper. It looks like something it’s </em>not. </p><p>
  <em>Arthur wrenches away from Merlin, heart in his throat. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Merlin—Merlin who is like 90 pounds and never won a fight in his life—rounds on the guy before grabbing Arthur’s elbow so that they stumble together again, colliding, collapsing. “What did you say?” he asks, eyes narrowed, grip bruise-tight around Arthur’s arm. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I said fuck that shit,” the guy yells over the sound of the band. “That gay pussy shit.” </em>
</p><p><em>Merlin lunges for him. Not to hit him, which would have been insane anyway, but to </em>mash their faces together<em> in a fierce, punishing kiss. He grabs the guy's head between flat palms and holds him fast, and Arthur doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he pulls away with blood on his teeth from the impact, eyes flashing. </em></p><p>
  <em>Adrenaline overtakes Arthur’s body as he scrambles after Merlin to pluck him off and haul him away before the crowd surges to fill the vacancy on the floor. They lose the asshole guy in the motion.</em>
</p><p><em> “Dude,” he chokes out, eyes wide, throat tight with panic. “What the </em>fuck! <em>You’re such an idiot, he’s going to </em>kill<em> us now,” Arthur yells as he steers Merlin toward the bathrooms, trying to sound angry though he’s mostly </em>impressed. <em>Or else, in shock. He can’t tell, really, only that his heart is pounding, and Merlin’s lower lip is busted, crimson beading from the split before tapering off into a smudge down his chin. It hurts Arthur to look at, so he thumbs it away gently.“That was really stupid, Merlin. Jesus.” </em></p><p><em>“That </em>guy<em> was really stupid,” he growls, wincing as Arthur touches him, eyes blown inky and black with pupil as his gaze skitters up. “Serves him right. Like. You can’t just call people fags in public like that.” </em></p><p><em>“Why do you care?” Arthur asks, even though </em>he<em> cares, too, in spite of himself. It felt like getting socked in the gut, to realize those insults were directed at </em>him. <em>At Merlin. At him and Merlin, like they’re a unit, something tied together not just in Arthur’s mind but in the real world, obvious and observable. It makes his guts twist and a spike of anxiety lurch up his throat and choke him. There are things he thinks privately, secretly belong to him, and it’s fucking scary to realize they’re actually just burnt into his skin for anyone to observe. “We’re not,” he says firmly. “We’re not </em>actually<em>—”</em></p><p><em>“So?” Merlin snaps, untying his sweatshirt and shrugging back into it, like he feels exposed. His tongue flicks out to lick the blood from his swollen lip, and Arthur’s heart trips as he imagines the sting. “Like, does that make it okay? Plenty of guys </em>are.” </p><p><em>Arthur cannot argue with that, of course, but it still unsettles him, puts his hackles up. He links his fingers behind his neck and stretches, refusing to look at Merlin right now. Not the hard set of his jaw, the red on his mouth that he can imagine the taste of, copper and hot. “Of course it doesn’t make it okay,” he grumbles. “I just don’t—I dunno.” </em>I don’t want you kissing guys besides me. I don’t want you to let people think you’re something you’re not just to prove a point. I don’t want you to act honorable when nothing about this has ever been honorable, for me. </p><p>“<em>Does it bother you?” Merlin asks then, shifting his weight, gaze fixed on the ground, which is concrete that was once painted black, littered in bits of chewed gum and duct-tape residue. “If people think we’re gay?” </em></p><p><em>The word </em>gay<em> is lead, and it sinks to the bottom of Arthur’s gut like a tossed anchor. It’s different than </em>bisexual<em>, just like homophobic dudes who want to kill them are different than girls cooing over them at parties. Arthur realizes in this moment that he’s only okay with being perceived a certain way, by certain people, and maybe this thing with Merlin has gone too far if he doesn’t have control over that perception anymore. “I don’t know,” he admits, insides crawling. </em></p><p><em>Merlin shrugs, and his eyes look wet. Arthur wonders what the fuck that </em>means. <em>This is all a </em>joke, <em>anyway. Merlin kissing Arthur to get girls is as much of a joke as Merlin kissing a jerk in a mosh pit to get revenge, or whatever. It’s not real. It’s not real like fishing line, or gut-knowing, or having an orbit that includes another body. “Hey,” Arthur says, knocking his hip into Merlin’s, gesturing over his shoulder. “Your boyfriend is leaving.” Sure enough, they watch a shaved head weave its way through the crowd and out the door, shoulders bunched around his ears. “You probably gave him a fucking sexuality crisis, or something,” Arthur adds. </em></p><p><em>And </em>thank god, <em>that makes Merlin laugh. “Maybe,” he mumbles, reaching for Arthur’s belt loops and marching him back to the stage, where the last opener is thanking the pit and starting to pack up their shit. “Let’s go get a spot up front.” </em></p><p>
  <em>And they don’t talk about it again all night, but Arthur sure thinks about it. He thinks about the tender-looking swell of Merlin’s lower lip, the way it would feel broken and taste metallic under his tongue, were he to lick it. He thinks of invisible string, of the impossible way it tangles, and how no matter how far apart they drift, they always end up tugged together again. Arthur could not lose Merlin if he tried. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hours later, on the way home, they roll down the windows and howl at the big summer moon. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. I'LL STOP THE STORM IF IT RAINS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HEY GUYS IM BACK!! its been weird....a weird week... a weird week and a few days?? I'm not even sure how long its been tbh because time is sort of meaningless!! But what matters is that I'm here, with a chapter. It's a sweet tender smutty chapter because I think Merlin and Arthur deserve a bit of stillness before things fall apart again. I just finished writing the most brutal chapter (the one that comes after this one) and it took me SO LONG and was SO CHALLENGING but its done and with my dear editor so I feel like the rest of this story should be coming out in a more timely fashion, Or at least I hope!!! thank you all for your kindness and patience and I so hope you enjoy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2008</p>
<p>What’s weird is how decidedly <em>not</em> weird this all is. They lie tangled up in Arthur’s bed for a while as dawn melts into morning, bodies flush so their voices rumble through one another, muddled and indistinguishable as they talk about the drive, the weather, skating, music. Nothing important, not yet. The air still feels fragile, and Arthur supposes <em>that</em> isn’t unusual, either, because it’s always been a challenge to draw the things out from Merlin that really count. But it’s fine, he thinks. He can be patient. </p>
<p>Eventually Merlin decides to shower the drive and the come off of him, and even though that’s a perfectly fair thing to want to do, Arthur still misses him when he’s gone. He watches the steam swirling out of the open bathroom door in loose plumes, everything smelling like his two-in-one Old Spice shampoo and bodywash. For a few seconds, he actually contemplates getting up and climbing into the shower with Merlin, but he’s not sure exactly where they stand on the whole <em>space</em> issue yet, and he doesn't want to be <em>so</em> fucking clingy and weird right off the bat that Merlin rethinks the whole being in love with him thing, so. He stays put, self-consciously tugging his sweats back on because the thought of Merlin coming back in and seeing him naked makes him feel exposed, somehow. </p>
<p>The faucet shuts off, and Merlin appears in the doorway, hair clean and sticking up in a million directions, chest bare and wet and flushed from the cascade of hot water. Arthur stares at him, at the way the droplets course down his neck to collect in the hollow above his collarbones. The way the trail of dark, matted hair beneath his navel disappears into the low-slung waistband of his joggers. <em>Jesus. </em>Arthur has never let himself just drink the sight of Merlin in before, and no fucking <em>wonder. </em>It makes his heart pound, his mouth go dry. “Hi,” he says stupidly, blinking at him. </p>
<p>Merlin smiles, leaning against the moulding and squeezing some toothpaste out onto the toothbrush he’s had in Arthur's bathroom for <em>years</em> now. It’s probably not super sanitary, it's so old, but it was handy when he decided to spend the night on a whim, and so it stayed. Arthur’s heart clenches as he watches. “You never got rid of this,” Merlin mumbles after shoving it in his mouth. “Thought you might.”</p>
<p>Arthur makes a face from the bed. “<em>I</em> wasn’t the one who was petty-mad at you. I wasn't going to throw your fucking toothbrush away, Merlin, I thought—<em>I </em>wanted you to come back more than anything,” he admits, forgoing his attempt to not talk about important stuff lest it shatter the tentative calm that settled over them. “I would have held onto your stuff for years if it took that long for you to talk to me again.” </p>
<p>Merlin disappears back into the bathroom to spit into the sink and rinse his mouth, temporarily invisible as Arthur’s stomach knots up in anxiety at the silence. But then, when he reappears, he strides meaningfully back into the room and climbs on top of Arthur, straddling him and, <em>fuck, </em>yes. Arthur grips his hips, drags him down, gasps beneath the sudden press of his weight. “I wouldn’t have lasted years,” Merlin sighs into his neck. “I barely lasted a few days.” </p>
<p>“Felt like forever,” Arthur grumbles, hooking an arm around Merlin’s lower back and just <em>holding</em> him there, matching their breath so their chests rise and fall in tandem. “I barely fucking survived.” </p>
<p>“You’re dramatic,” Merlin says before kissing him, lips soft and cool and minty. Arthur doesn’t waste any time licking right into his mouth because he wants to <em>taste</em> him, not his toothpaste but <em>Merlin, </em>his spit, his breath, <em>him. </em>Arthur’s got so much time to make up for, time he spent trying <em>not</em> to notice every single thing about how it felt to kiss Merlin. It’s overwhelming, to have it all now, to drown in it consciously, willingly. But just as he’s starting to deepen the kiss, Merlin pulls away and rolls off. “Hey,” he says, spreading a hand on Arthur’s chest to keep him from dipping in and claiming his mouth again. “I was wondering if, um. I could spend a couple of days here with you? My mom doesn't know I came down early, and she’ll be so worried if she finds out I drove at night without telling anyone, and you don’t <em>have</em> to but—”</p>
<p>“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, taking his jaw between thumb and forefinger and drawing him closer, studying the pout of his lips, the blue of his eyes, the faintest shadow of stubble on his chin. He’s so insanely pretty it hurts. “Of course you can fucking stay with me. Obviously. My dad’s out of town on a business trip. We can—,” and then he tries to speed up to get the rest out before his voice falters in embarrassment, but he ends up awkwardly coughing anyway, cheeks heating up, words dying in his throat. “We don’t even have to leave the bedroom if you want. Or the bed,” he finally manages. “If you want.” </p>
<p>Merlin snorts, eyes bright and incredulous as a grin slices sudden and lightning-white across his face. “God. You really aren’t—you’re not freaked out by this.” </p>
<p>Arthur frowns. “Freaking out is overrated, dude. I spent years being freaked out, I’m fucking over it now. I want to spend two full days having sex with my best friend and, like. Occasionally ordering pizza to refuel.” And then, because Merlin just stares at him with this helpless sort of shock in the watery blue of his eyes, he swallows down the nervous bubble in his throat and adds, in a soft voice, <em>“</em>I love you,” because he needs Merlin to get it through his thick fucking <em>head </em>that he <em>knows</em> what this is, and he’s okay with it. Maybe it will bite him in the ass later when the reality of their uncertain future in separate halves of the state sets in, or whatever, but for now? He’s good. He’s <em>fantastic. </em></p>
<p>Merlin licks his lips, tilting forward until his brow presses into Arthur’s. “I love you back,” he mumbles. “And I’d really like that. Staying here in your bed until I’m supposed to show up at my mom’s, I mean.” </p>
<p>“Good,” Arthur says, exhaling in relief before pressing a kiss to the corner of Merlin’s mouth, the cut of his cheekbone, the highest point at the arch of his brow. “It’s settled. We can go back to making out. Unless you’re, like, hungry or something. Or maybe you want to sleep? If you were up all night driving, you’ve <em>got</em> to be tired.” </p>
<p>Merlin shakes his head, rolling Arthur onto his back and climbing atop him again, grinding down so their hips shift together in a filthy drag. “I don’t want to sleep,” he says, something firm and resolute in his voice, the words forced out between firm, possessive kisses. Arthur chases each one, desperate for more, heart racing in boundless elation. “You know what I <em>really</em> want?” </p>
<p>“What?” Arthur asks, carding his fingers through the clean damp of Merlin’s hair. And he’s not sure what he’s <em>expecting, </em>really, so perhaps he shouldn’t be stunned to gut-churning silence when Merlin answers. </p>
<p>“I want to suck you off,” he murmurs, mouth suddenly open and wet where it presses to the jut of Arthur’s Adam’s apple. “<em>So</em> fucking bad. I’ve wanted to for ages.” </p>
<p>Arthur sort of flatlines, brain going dead as he clutches at Merlin, face flushing reflexively. “You’ve. For ages,” he manages to repeat, cock twitching in his sweats at the mere <em>thought, </em>the weight of it against his thigh a suddenly distracting thing. “How many ages.” </p>
<p>Merlin keeps his face hidden in the ditch of Arthur’s neck, breath hot with each slow, hungry kiss he presses there. “Since, like, seventh grade, probably,” he admits, and <em>fuck, </em>Jesus, Arthur’s not even sure he <em>knew</em> what a blowjob was back then, Merlin is <em>insane; </em>he’s perfect<em>. </em>“I was so—ugh. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d think about it. Just. Your dick in my mouth. Not even hard, necessarily, just you, the smell of you everywhere and how bad I wanted all of you and—I thought I was the <em>worst</em> friend. That you’d find out and hate me,” he forces out in a rush. </p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Arthur mumbles, skin pebbling in gooseflesh as Merlin mouths his way down from his throat to his sternum, the scrape of his teeth and the slick of his tongue and the terrible softness of his lips almost too much to sustain. “I wouldn’t have <em>hated</em> you. I could never hate you. I was just—stupid. Behind you by a few years, or something.” </p>
<p>Merlin looks at him, grins like he’s pleased to hear such an admission. “You’ve caught up, though.” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Arthur says, reaching for Merlin’s impossible face, rubbing clumsily over his cheek before thumbing the swollen pout of his lips. “I wouldn’t have known what to do with your mouth back then, but that didn’t stop me from, like. Being obsessed with it,” he confesses, memories crowding themselves in his brain in an attempt to spill out, messy and shameful in the new light. “Whenever we’d eat Otter Pops in the summer and your lips got stained, I’d fucking notice. One time I jacked off in the country club bathroom. I thought it was so annoying, the way I’d get hard, I just—didn’t know why.” </p>
<p>And it’s an<em> embarrassing </em>story, he tells it with a <em>self-effacing</em> voice, but it makes Merlin’s eyes flash and his lashes flutter as he chokes out a soft, reflexive moan, rutting against Arthur like he is a sea to part, a field to plow. “Arthur,” he moans, one hand skittering low on his stomach, between the shift of their bodies. “Fuck. Can I?” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Arthur tells him, tilting back and laughing up at the ceiling in disbelief, grinning wide and boundless like a field on fire. <em>God. </em>He can’t believe this is <em>happening, </em>that Merlin <em>wants</em> him so badly, has wanted him so <em>long. </em>It seems impossible, too good to be true, but he knows it’s real from the way Merlin is touching him, from the hunger in his kisses. “God. You can have whatever you want, Merlin, you—I’m just so, so glad you’re here.” </p>
<p>“M’here,” he growls reassuringly against Arthur’s sternum, voice thin as he swallows and shifts down the bed. “Like, <em>so</em> here. Definitely here. Want to die here.” </p>
<p>“Don’t die,” Arthur scolds as he twists his fingers into Merlin’s hair, chest heaving beneath his kisses. He thought giving Merlin permission to suck his dick meant he would, like—<em>suck his dick</em>—but that’s not what he’s doing, though it’s <em>clear</em> he's indulging himself. Mostly he’s just putting his mouth <em>everywhere, </em>licking over Arthur’s ribs, scouring his lips raw on the hair between his pectorals, sucking his nipples until they’re hard and red, which is not something Arthur <em>ever</em> thought he’d let anyone do but actually feels <em>insanely</em> good. His cock is so hard, throbbing in his sweats, precum beading out the slit every time Merlin makes his way decidedly lower, like a promise. </p>
<p>At some point, he gets his fingers into Arthur’s waistband, and Arthur’s heart fucking stops. But then he just <em>stays there—</em>petting the skin beneath the elastic and chewing all over Arthur’s stomach until it's littered in teeth marks, shining in spit. Arthur’s been the tiniest bit insecure about his body since he stopped having PE class as an excuse to do sports and started drinking so much, but Merlin doesn’t seem to notice the ways in which he’s gotten wider, or softer. Or if he <em>does</em> notice, he evidently doesn’t care. Arthur stares down at him with bleary eyes, cupping the back of his neck and compulsively kneading the cords there to try and ground himself in <em>anything</em> save for the maddening frustration of having Merlin’s mouth so close to his cock without actually, like. <em>Touching</em> it. He tries to suck in a steadying inhalation, but instead a pitiful, strangled sound comes out. “Merlin, <em>please. </em>Are you going to—”</p>
<p>Merlin bites his hip bone not at <em>all</em> gently, and it stings, but it also shuts him right the fuck up. “Yes, I’m going to. Eventually. Be patient,” he murmurs. Then his gaze flickers up, ice-blue through the black cut of his lashes. “I’ve been patient.” </p>
<p>“Fuck. Okay. M’trying,” Arthur grinds out, sweat-sticky as he shifts his hips on the bed, desperate for something <em>more</em> than Merlin’s awful teasing. He can <em>smell</em> himself, and he’s acutely aware that he hasn’t showered even though <em>Merlin</em> has, and he’s about to apologize for it or something when Merlin up and <em>presses his face</em> to the crotch of Arthur’s sweats and inhales. </p>
<p>It steals his breath, makes his heart speed and trip and clench. Merlin <em>finally</em> lays his hand on his cock, then, squeezing it experimentally through the soft cotton, thumbing reverently up the shape of it. “It’s always driven me crazy when you wear sweats without boxers. I could <em>see</em> you. Smell you,” Merlin mumbles, eyes flickering beneath the delicate skin of his lids, pale against the dark slice of his lashes. </p>
<p>“You could <em>smell</em> my dick?” Arthur chokes out, back arching without meaning to, all so that he can push himself closer to the warm huff of Merlin’s exhalations. </p>
<p>“Yeah, and god—I just wanted this. Wanted all of you,” he explains, making a fist around Arthur’s cock through his sweats as he buries his face in the fabric again, sucking lungfuls from it, and <em>fuck</em> it should be gross, it should be weird, but it’s anything but. Arthur’s vision blurs as his eyes unexpectedly flood and he blinks up at the ceiling, a gasp caught in his throat, prickling like thistle. And the thing is, it’s a familiar feeling. For years, Arthur hasn’t had words for the way Merlin makes him feel, but it’s just—it’s just love. It’s <em>always</em> been love, he’s loved Merlin this whole fucking time, needed him like this even before he understood what it meant. <em>I wanted all of you, too,</em> he tries to say, but it's impossible to get <em>anything</em> out when there’s a wet, searing pressure sealing over the tip of his dick and eclipsing the rest of the world and all of his senses. </p>
<p>Arthur’s vision whites out as his quads seize up into sudden spasm. <em>Jesus fucking Christ, </em>Merlin is mouthing him through his sweats, sucking his precum from the fabric, and it’s so dirty and shocking and <em>good</em> that Arthur can’t do anything but hold him in place, fingers twitching to form a fist in the flint-black of his hair. “Merlin,” he groans, the only word he can remember save for <em>“</em>Fuck. <em>Fuck.” </em></p>
<p>Merlin stays and <em>stays, </em>sucking relentlessly as Arthur winces and tries to keep his hips as still as possible so he doesn’t chase the impossibility of slickness and fuck Merlin’s face. The barrier keeps him on edge, rough and foreign, so he pushes himself into that feeling instead of prematurely shooting off to the terrible, relentless thought of <em>Merlin’s mouth is on my cock. </em></p>
<p>It feels like fucking forever, but once the crotch of Arthur’s sweats is dark and spit-soaked, Merlin <em>finally</em> tugs the waistband down and takes him out, palm warm, grip reverent in its certainty. “Your cock is so gorgeous,” he murmurs, sounding almost <em>somber</em> with awe as he studies it, rubbing his thumb through the stickiness shining at the crown, eyes dark. </p>
<p>It seems like an absurd thing to say when <em>Merlin</em> is so gorgeous, Merlin’s pretty face inches from the obscene need of Arthur’s erection, his pale sharp cheekbones dusted in pink, mouth a swollen wet thing. Arthur chokes out a laugh. He wants to make a joke, something like <em>go ahead and take your time, Merlin, s’not like I’m </em>dying here<em> or anything, </em>but instead he swallows the urge and meets him with sincerity. “You think so?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Merlin watch him. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Merlin says, and <em>then</em> the world ends because he finally decides to take pity on Arthur and opens his mouth to fit the devastating wet of it to Arthur’s shaft. </p>
<p>Arthur makes an embarrassing sound at the molten heat, moves to cover his mouth, and then remembers that the house is totally empty so he can moan as loudly as he fucking <em>wants</em> to with no consequence. “<em>Fuck</em>, Merlin, that’s so good,” he groans. “What the fuck.” </p>
<p>Merlin smiles smugly against Arthur’s cock before pressing kiss after open-mouthed kiss to the same spot, each one dirtier and wetter than the last. Then, just when Arthur is starting to seriously consider <em>touching</em> himself so he doesn't <em>die, </em>Merlin sucks him down as deep as he can, and <em>shit, </em>fuck, what the <em>hell. </em></p>
<p>The next few minutes are a wild, breathless blur. Merlin is so <em>sloppy, </em>his lips red and wet, spit frothing out of the imperfect seal and dripping down Arthur to collect in his pubic hair, everything searing and hungry and <em>filthy. </em>But the worst part about it is that Merlin <em>moans</em> the whole time, like the pleasure of having Arthur’s cock in his mouth is somehow equivalent to the pleasure his mouth is giving <em>Arthur, </em>the same maddening, sky-splitting burn. </p>
<p>Arthur doesn’t think he’s going to last very long at this rate, but every time he gets close, Merlin pulls off gasping to study him, eyes sharp, mouth shining, palms flat on Arthur’s thighs and holding him down. The <em>third</em> time this happens, Arthur actually has to choke back a reflexive, frustrated sob.<em> “Fuck</em> you, you are <em>so mean, </em>how are you even <em>doing</em> that!?” he wheezes. </p>
<p>And <em>god, </em>the way Merlin smiles at him is enough to finish him off <em>alone. </em>So bright and barbed and pleased with himself. Arthur nearly cries. “You’re so obvious when you're about to come,” Merlin tells him, smoothing his hands up Arthur’s hips to his stomach, where he presses greedy fingers into the marks he left there. “I can feel you tighten up, here,” he explains, thumbing into Arthur’s abdominals before skimming down to his balls, which he gently brushes with his knuckles. Arthur squirms, flushing. “And here.” </p>
<p>“Oh,” Arthur says stupidly, breath catching as Merlin ducks down again, this time to tongue the place he just touched, the soft, crepe-paper secret skin beneath Arthur’s hard cock. Balls are weird; he’s never imagined having his balls looked at in a sexy way let alone sucked, but Merlin is fucking changing everything for him, so. He melts into the wet heat of it, bending one of his knees and digging his heel into the mattress to give Merlin more space, more access. To just, like, <em>suck him, </em>lie there on his stomach <em>nursing </em>Arthur’s ballsand drooling all quiet and primal and needy like this is where he belongs, all he’s ever wanted. </p>
<p>And Arthur doesn’t want to deny Merlin a single thing he wants. He wants to give him everything, even if he doesn't fully understand it, even if it’s a little scary and a lot overwhelming and well outside the realm of any sex Arthur’s ever imagined. It feels <em>good </em>to give him what he wants, better than anything, really, especially after so many years of denying Merlin, denying <em>himself</em>. He runs his fingers through his hair and breathlessly whimpers at the feel of Merlin’s mouth, thinking, <em>here, here you go, I’m all yours, whatever you want, it’s yours. </em></p>
<p>So when Merlin pulls up to gaze up at Arthur with hazy eyes and an unspoken question on his spit-shining lips, Arthur already knows the answer is <em>yes. “</em>What?” he asks anyway, thumbing over the plump, filthy, red-stained slick of Merlin’s mouth. “What do you want.” </p>
<p>“You can say no,” he mumbles, gaze half-lidded and careful. “Don’t feel like you have to, but I—I really really want to eat you out.” </p>
<p>Arthur stares. These words mean nothing to him, nothing at all in relation to his body, or at least his perception of it. He wrinkles his nose and makes an incredulous face. “What?!” </p>
<p>Merlin closes his eyes and rubs his cheek against Arthur’s cock, eliciting an involuntary whine. “I want to lick your ass,” he clarifies, and well—that’s actually not that much more clarity, as far as Arthur’s concerned. </p>
<p>“You—wait. People do that?” he asks then, trying to process this information and completely failing because his cock is still very hard, and Merlin is still breathing all over it and looking positively beautiful between his thighs, there’s no hope for Arthur to be smart or logical right now. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Merlin says easily, cocking his head and idly jacking Arthur off, steady and too-slow and totally madness-inducing. “Like, people besides me, you mean? It’s a thing, I’m not crazy. I can find a porn clip to demonstrate if you’d like,” he snarks, and <em>Jesus,</em> no one should look so pretty and perfect at the same time they’re being <em>so condescending. </em>Arthur flops back down onto the bed, gaze locking resolutely on the ceiling. </p>
<p>“Merlin, if you leave this bed, I’ll kill you,” he deadpans. “And if you <em>really</em> want to, you can lick my ass.” </p>
<p>Arthur <em>hears</em> Merlin’s breath catch at that. “Fuck, I do, I <em>really</em> want to,” he slurs, like that was a sexy thing Arthur just said, and it sort of blows his mind because <em>he doesn’t get it. </em></p>
<p>This has to be some sort of joke, but the thing is, he can <em>tell</em> it’s not from the drugged-out, hungry look on Merlin’s face as he watches Arthur laboriously roll over and rearrange himself onto his stomach, hardly believing his own willingness but mostly hardly believing <em>Merlin, </em>who is clearly insane. Driving all night and crawling through Arthur’s window and begging to lick his ass. It’s crazy, <em>he’s</em> crazy, but Arthur is so fucking in love with him and so achingly turned on, he’ll do whatever. He folds his arms under his pillow and hides his burning face in it. “Have at it,” he says, stomach twisting in nerves and anticipation. </p>
<p>And Merlin is clearly done wasting time. He manhandles Arthur’s thighs wider, moans, pries his ass apart to fit his <em>face</em> there, and Jesus—<em>what—</em>there’s the slick of his tongue, licking right up Arthur’s crack from his balls to his tailbone. </p>
<p>Initially, Arthur can’t feel anything beyond <em>weird, ticklish, wet, wet</em>, <em>wet</em>,so he braces himself against the sensation for a few seconds, grits his teeth, and makes fists in the sheets to keep from kicking out, but Merlin doesn’t let up. He holds his cheeks parted and groans right into the center of him, breath infernally hot as he kisses and sucks and licks so greedily and tirelessly that Arthur has no choice but to relent. Eventually he relaxes into it as Merlin lands on a rhythm, but before Arthur even has time to catch up, the feel of it shifts from <em>weird</em> to <em>phenomenal. </em>Like. <em>What the actual fuck. </em></p>
<p>It just didn’t occur to Arthur that it might feel good for <em>him </em>to have his ass licked because Merlin acted like the point was to be the one <em>licking. </em>Like <em>that </em>was where the pleasure resided. And he <em>is</em> clearly enjoying himself, moaning and drooling in rivulets that drip lewdly down Arthur’s thighs, but then—Arthur has <em>never </em>felt anything like this. It’s so hot and so <em>dirty, </em>the insane, incomprehensible <em>wet </em>of it making his hole flutter in needy pulses as he gasps and ruts his cock into the sheets. He's being so loud, his back is arched so slutily, he <em>knows </em>he must look pitiful, but he can’t stop himself. It’s too fucking <em>good. </em>He bites his pillow to keep from crying out, backing his hips up onto the astounding slick of Merlin’s tongue as he <em>breaches</em> him, licking <em>into</em> him, <em>fucking him open. </em></p>
<p>Which, of course, forces Arthur to consider that he is <em>most definitely</em> getting his ass fucked right now, even if it’s just by Merlin’s tongue. And that’s another thing he didn’t think he'd be into just obliterated by the tide. He <em>most definitely</em> likes it. In fact, he wants <em>more. </em>His insides are clutching madly, greedy for a wider, deeper stretch. He wants Merlin’s fingers, his <em>cock. </em>He moans just <em>thinking</em> about it, face mashed into his pillow as he humps the bed, so fucking close just from <em>imagining </em>Merlin’s weight on his back. He’s horny to the point of shameless self-indulgence, so he lets himself think about it—<em>really</em> think about it: Merlin’s cock pressing into his hole, coring him, reducing him to this pathetic, hungry, desperate mess, begging and sloppy like a girl. He doesn't know why the thought is so hot, but it is. “Oh my fucking <em>god, </em>Merlin, M’gonna—if you keep it up, I can come from this.” </p>
<p>Merlin gasps as he pulls away, rubbing his fingers into the needy spasm of Arthur’s hole as it clutches at nothing, whimpering. “ Yeah? You’re gonna come with my tongue in your ass?” </p>
<p>Arthur growls in frustration, hiding his burning face in the crook of his elbow and biting his sheets. “Yes,” he admits. </p>
<p>Merlin clearly likes to hear that, which just makes it even <em>hotter</em> when he bends back down, licking over Arthur’s hole with deliberate, teasing slowness, tracing it in filthy circles. Arthur is fucking laugh-sobbing into his arm when Merlin finally dives back in with purpose, forcing his tongue past the tight ring of muscle and taking Arthur’s cock in hand at the <em>same time, </em>flattening his palm out on the bed so that Arthur can rut against the hot plane of it, driving himself closer and closer to finish. And it’s not enough, it’s never enough, <em>nothing</em> will be enough as long as he’s <em>empty</em> like this, sated only in moments from the filthy spear of Merlin’s tongue, but it’s <em>good, </em>it’s solid. He can feel himself teetering closer, and at least this time, Merlin is <em>letting</em> him. </p>
<p>When it happens, it’s like a volcano, a typhoon, the end of the world, or maybe just one of those nightmares where you’re driving up and up a steep winding mountain until the road suddenly ends and then you’re hurtling brakeless into empty sky as you shoot off the edge. It’s that <em>big, </em>that stomach-twisting, that terror-wide. Arthur lets out an animal, involuntary sound as he fucks Merlin’s loose grip, spilling over his fist and onto the bed before he collapses, trapping his wrist there. </p>
<p>Merlin keeps licking him as he works his come-sticky hand out from underneath Arthur’s deadweight, his tongue sloppy, sweet, hot. Arthur’s sensitive everywhere, but it still feels <em>good</em> to be touched, his body is still needy for it, thighs spread wide as he imperceptibly surges toward that slick heat in a clumsy rhythm. Merlin eventually gets his hand free and immediately smears Arthur’s collected load over his hole before licking it out again, and if Arthur wasn’t openly crying <em>before</em> this, he <em>definitely</em> is now. His vision is nothing but a hazy blur as he stares aimlessly at the bunched hills and valleys of his own sheets that he rucked up with his bucking, his body soft and open and accepting every new press of Merlin’s tongue up inside him. He’s never had sex like this—maybe he’s never had sex at <em>all</em> if this is how it’s supposed to be. He's certainly never felt this way before, so ruined and wrung out, reduced to nothing but tears and sweat and spit. He’s a raw, exposed nerve, and it’s <em>life-changing. </em></p>
<p>Like—half the stuff Merlin <em>did</em> to him he’s never even thought of as sex in the first place. Arthur’s whole universe has been shattered into irretrievable pieces, and he doesn’t even <em>care</em> that he’s a demolition site. It’s amazing. Merlin is amazing. He’s beautiful and flushed and smells like Arthur’s ass as he crawls up and grapples him onto his back to kiss him, and the fact that it’s hot and not gross is another fucking revelation for Arthur to grapple with. “Fuck” he slurs as he bites Merlin’s swollen lips, licks over his teeth, finds enough strength in his body to pull him close with quaking arms. “What the hell did you <em>do</em> to me?” </p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Merlin admits, melting into Arthur and rubbing his wet jaw onto his shoulder. “I sort of just did whatever <em>I</em> wanted. It was all very selfishly motivated, if I’m being honest.” </p>
<p>“Of course it was,” Arthur snorts, touching Merlin all over, too come-drunk to even worry about being excessive. Merlin’s so warm and so soft, and he <em>loves Arthur</em>, so he can touch him as much as he fucking wants to. “Well, it was—it felt so fucking good, Merlin. You, like. You ruined me.” And then, because he’s <em>wet</em> there and still pulsing with an occasional, involuntary clench that it’s sort of an impossible thing to forget, he adds, “Um, I didn’t think I was into butt stuff, but, like, turns out I’m <em>absolutely </em>into butt stuff.” </p>
<p>Merlin’s smile is <em>very</em> smug, and it just makes Arthur want to shove him, but fortunately for Merlin, he’s too weak to pull off anything save for a half-hearted squeeze at his shoulders. “I’m glad I could convince you,” Merlin says, easily shrugging out from under Arthur’s grip and rolling onto his side. “Because your ass has been heavily featured in my fantasies for the last seven years. Your ass is—it’s a really good ass,” he sighs, looking like it <em>pains </em>him to think about how good it supposedly is. </p>
<p>Arthur has never thought much about his ass, other than the fact that lots of skinny jeans from Hot Topic don’t fit over it properly, which is irritating. He’s glad that this particular years’ long struggle has had <em>some</em> benefit, even if it was to drive Merlin crazy. “So you’ve fantasized, specifically, about licking my ass like that?” Arthur asks, still half-stunned by this whole thing. </p>
<p>Merlin nods, eyes hazy as he rubs his hand idly down his own stomach before working it beneath the waistband of his sweats and—right. Merlin is still hard. Arthur unabashedly stares as he remembers, gaze suddenly fixed on the wet spot on the cotton, the secret shift of motion beneath the fabric. His mouth, which had been very dry a moment ago, quite suddenly floods. “Can I see your cock?” he asks, scooting closer and laying a tentative hand on Merlin’s side, smoothing it up his ribs and back down to his hip, where it stills with a steady grip. “I want to touch you.” </p>
<p>“You don't have to,” Merlin tells him as he wiggles out of his sweats, rolling them down his thighs and revealing skin in painstaking inches. “I know—like, it’s different to have stuff done to you than it is to do stuff. I get it. I won’t be offended if you want to wait on that.” </p>
<p>“Merlin,” Arthur says flatly, stomach knotting itself up as he studies his cock for the first time for more than a few fleeting seconds: it’s big, which shouldn’t be surprising but sort of is. It’s not as thick as Arthur’s, the crown not as red or as fat, but he decides it’s extremely pretty, as far as cocks go, and he wouldn’t expect anything less from Merlin who is generally very pretty in every way, now that he’s letting himself think about it. He tracks the steady motion of Merlin’s hand, takes note of the way he touches himself. For science. “Don’t be stupid. M’not—just let me, okay? I, like, really, really, <em>very badly</em> want to do stuff to you, too.” </p>
<p>Merlin’s eyes flutter shut in overwhelm, and his cock twitches in his hand. Arthur, who was only <em>just</em> beginning to catch his breath, forgets how to breathe all over again at the sight. “Okay,” Merlin mumbles, moving his hand so that his cock flags against his stomach, so hard and flushed and needy looking. “You can.” </p>
<p>Arthur doesn’t think too much about it. He doesn’t let himself. He just hooks one arm around Merlin’s neck to drag him into a kiss, then curls the other around his cock to feel him out. And he’s <em>touched himself</em> before, so none of it should come as a shock, but still, there’s something so fucking intimate about it that his pulse goes mad in his chest at the first slow, measured stroke. Merlin’s skin is so soft, a velveteen, almost <em>delicate</em> shift over the steel-hard core of him, everything so hot it nearly <em>burns</em> Arthur, and there, Merlin’s <em>heartbeat </em>held tight in his palm. “Fuck,” he murmurs into their kisses, tongue getting wet, sloppy, hungry as he touches, face crumpling in overwhelm. “You feel so good. You’re all wet for me,” he marvels, dabbing his fingers into the slickness beading at the tip and letting it lubricate his next drownstroke. “<em>Fuck, </em>Merlin.” </p>
<p>Merlin shudders and moans, fucking Arthur’s hand, hips rolling with the stilted, lazy motion. Arthur wants to <em>see</em> everything, so he props himself up to gaze down at Merlin’s body, the pale crescent of his spine, the quake of his thigh muscles as they gather and tighten. “You’re so—I love you,” he chokes out as he quickens the shift of his palm, tightening his grip so that he can watch Merlin whimper and cry out. “Love your cock in my hand.” </p>
<p>“Jesus,” Merlin curses, reaching for Arthur’s wrist and encircling it with a biting grip. “Slow down, don’t bring me off yet.” </p>
<p>“You’re close?” Arthur asks, stomach dropping at the thought. It seems crazy that <em>he</em> did this, that <em>he</em> and his inexpert, clumsy grip could get Merlin so hot, so fast. He loosens the curl of his fingers and brushes his knuckles up the underside instead before teasing over the crown. </p>
<p>“Shut up, I’ve been hard forever. Just sucking you had me so close—touching you. Licking you out—<em>ah,</em>” he groans as Arthur squeezes him. “You don’t know how many times I've made myself come thinking about doing that. It’s, like. It’s a reflex now, s’not my fault.” </p>
<p>Arthur is obsessed, he’s beside himself, he’s <em>ruined. </em>He can’t believe his ass is so powerful, so <em>worthy</em> as to have brought Merlin off countless times. “What else?” he growls against the corner of his mouth before flicking his tongue over it, licking Merlin’s swollen lips apart. “What else did you think about doing to me? What did you think about me doing to <em>you?” </em></p>
<p>Merlin chokes out a breathless laugh, cock flexing as Arthur touches him idly, indulgently, molasses-slow and syrup-sticky. “Um. So many things. This, for one. You touching me, I—I love your hands so much.” </p>
<p>Arthur grins into Merlin’s lips, thinking of all the times Merlin studied him while he rolled a joint for them or popped the cap of a beer bottle off by using the edge of the counter, quick and expert. And he <em>liked</em> the heat of Merlin’s gaze back then—he’d wanted it so bad. He just didn’t think about <em>why.</em> “Did you think about fucking me?” he asks, voice low and urgent because he needs to know. Because he’s thinking about it. Because he's pretty sure he needs it. “Because I—I definitely thought about fucking you.” </p>
<p>Merlin groans again, cock twitching and dripping in the steady drag of Arthur’s hand, his breath coming out crazy and uneven. “Really?” he whines, hips snapping as he meets Arthur’s strokes half-way, everything wet and burning with friction, so fucking <em>good</em> that Arthur can hardly remember to breathe his way through their desperate, filthy kissing. </p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>, really. When you—ah, fuck, god, way back when you got that stupid vibrator our senior year? I couldn't stop thinking about it. I jacked off when we talked that night, thinking about you. And a bunch of times after, too, tried to stop myself but never could,” Arthur admits, astounded that this thing that’s caused him so much shame and self-recrimination over the last year is, like, <em>dirty talk, </em>now. Merlin bites his lip, face a mess of disbelief streaked through with arousal. </p>
<p>“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks. “I—god. I wondered, actually. Because you asked me so many questions that night. I wondered if you were touching yourself. If you even <em>knew</em> you were getting off to it, or if you were such repressed idiot that—”</p>
<p>“I knew. I totally knew, I wanted you to tell me every detail so I could picture it. So I could imagine what it would be like to fuck you. To push inside you,” Arthur forces out in a rush, his cock twitching against his thigh even though it’s spent and he's exhausted and it would be a fucking miracle if he got hard enough to come again before he, like, had a gatorade or something. But <em>god</em>, Merlin is so <em>hot, </em>fucking his fist and clawing all over him, pushing greedy fingers through his hair, sucking his tongue, moaning into his mouth. He’s so <em>desperate,</em> but Arthur pulls away because he’s got more important things to say. “And I still think about fucking you, obviously. But right now—ever since you licked me—I’m thinking about your cock inside me,” Arthur admits as he pulls back to press his mouth to the shell of Merlin’s ear, breath escaping him in a nervous, choppy huff. “My ass if yours if you want it, Merlin. If you want to fuck me.” </p>
<p>And just like that, Merlin comes. He locks up, hips arching off the bed so that he wavers against Arthur’s body for a moment before he shudders into a boneless heap, breath whittled into a mess of hoarse, ragged moans as he shoots off all over his own chest. Arthur can’t bite back the hectic, triumphant grin spread across his face so instead he just presses it to Merlin’s gasping mouth. </p>
<p>“Okay, so, I take it you like that idea,” Arthur says complacently, stroking Merlin through the aftershocks, thrilled at how <em>wrecked </em>he looks, spread out and naked and sweat-dewy and littered in sticky white. Arthur eventually lets him go once he starts to soften, and then, out of curiosity, he brings his hand to his mouth and licks his palm. </p>
<p>Merlin’s come is salty-bitter, exactly like his own come only <em>different, </em>somehow, <em>better</em> because it’s Merlin, and he loves everything about him. “Did I kill you?” he asks, poking him in the ribs.</p>
<p>“Maybe,” Merlin rasps without opening his eyes. “Do you <em>really </em>want me to fuck you?” </p>
<p>“Yeah. I mean not right now, obviously, but soon. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever. I don’t have any, like, <em>supplies</em> or whatever, but we can skate to Rite Aid or something. If you know what to get. I don’t,” Arthur realizes, shrugging because he figures all he has to do is lie there, and Merlin will take care of the rest. His heart leaps a bit, both daunted and slated at the prospect of <em>how many things</em> he gets to try in the next few days—sucking Merlin’s cock, fucking his ass, <em>getting his ass fucked. </em>It’s crazy. Last night, he wanted to <em>die, </em>and now he’s getting a crash course in gay sex from the person he loves very most in the world. </p>
<p>Merlin rolls over laboriously and looks at Arthur with bleary eyes. “I can’t believe you,” he says, reaching out and laying his tremulous hand on Arthur’s cheek, thumbing beneath his eye where he’s probably all tear-sticky and swollen, still. “But m’not complaining. I love you so much. So, so, so much.” </p>
<p>Arthur kisses him and hopes this means they’re going on a sex supply run to the nearest drugstore as soon as physically possibly. Which might be awhile from now, to be honest, because Merlin is settling closer to him and twitching the way he does right before he’s about to fall asleep, his leg heavy as he drapes it over Arthur’s calf. “So <em>now</em> you want to sleep,” he mumbles, trying his hardest to arrange the blankets around them, even though he’s trapped under Merlin’s deadweight. “I guess that’s fair.” </p>
<p>But Merlin is snoring and drooling on his pillow not even one minute later, and Arthur manages to roll them both over so that he’s spooning him, face pressed into the back of his neck where he can press kiss after kiss to the top-most knob of his spine. Arthur thinks he’s not tired enough to sleep, that he’ll just lie here holding Merlin while he naps and memorize every little thing about what it feels like to <em>do this, </em>but the steady rise and fall of his ribcage ends up doing him in, and eventually, his eyes drift close, too. </p>
<p>He dreams they’re fifteen and stoned and tangled up on a waterbed, only this time, he doesn’t stop himself from kissing Merlin. He does it again and again, sucking the smoky green sweetness from his lips, telling him, <em>I’ll do it right this time, I promise. Just let me. Just let me fix it. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>—-</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>2007</em>
</p>
<p><em>It’s Merlin’s first Christmas back from college, and Arthur’s trying not to be mad about it. Or at least trying not to let the resentment and hurt that’s been insidiously brewing inside him for the last few months fuck up the precious few weeks they get to spend together. He </em>knows<em> Merlin’s just been busy with settling in and studying and shit—he </em>knows<em> he shouldn’t take it personally that he hasn’t been great at texting or returning Arthur’s calls. But he’s back now, no papers or readings or lectures or whatever other stupid excuses he’s been using to duck out of their loosely scheduled AIM chats. He’s back, and they can </em>finally <em>hang out. </em></p>
<p><em>So Arthur is more than a little sulky when Merlin ends up inviting </em>their whole friend group<em> to the skatepark. He expected to show up and have it be just the two of them. He imagined jogging across the chewed up grass and past the playground, taking the long way so he could sneak up on Merlin and hug him from behind. He imagined this—grand reunion, or something. It’d been three whole months after all, and he fucking </em>missed<em> Merlin, couldn’t wait to catch up and skate and give him a hard time for being a preppy college boy, couldn’t wait for things to be </em>exactly <em>how they were over the summer because </em>he <em>was exactly the same as he’d been over the summer. Nothing had changed, not for Arthur, so he had no </em>reason <em>to think Merlin wanted anything different. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>But as his tires crunch into the gravelly parking lot, he can see Leon sitting on the side of the bowl cheering Elyan on as he practices kick-flips, Percy and Merlin standing in the shade laughing about something. </em>
</p>
<p><em>It takes a few seconds for Arthur to recover from the sight, even though he knows it’s stupid. These guys are his friends, too, and he actually hasn't seen much of them since Merlin left, either, because they’re also all in school, He should be glad. But—he’s just </em>not. </p>
<p><em>He chews the inside of his cheek and works on schooling his grimace, eyes stinging behind the lenses of his sunglasses. And then, because he’s maybe a little petty, and if </em>Merlin<em> wants to make it a big-ass affair, </em>Arthur<em> has other friends, too, he texts Elena, who is not his girlfriend. Not yet, anyway. They kissed at a party over the weekend and have been flirting via AIM ever since, even though Arthur had been way too drunk to remember anything about the kissing at all save for that it happened. But whatever. Vivian hates dirty things, and Mithian is too cool to expose to his stupid friends, so Elena it is: </em></p>
<p>hey, me and sum ppl are chilling at the skatepark in Duarte. u should come :), <em>he sends. Then, he pockets his phone and kicks his way out of the car. </em></p>
<p><em>Merlin doesn’t look up at him until he’s literally right in front of him, and when he does, his eyes are weird and guarded, and he doesn’t get up from the picnic table he’s sitting on top of to hug Arthur at all. Before Arthur has a chance to figure out what to do with this, Percy slaps his back so hard he nearly falls over, and then </em>he’s<em> hugging him, and Leon and Elyan are running over to hug him, too, and it’s a whole fucking sweaty boy hugging train, with Merlin lingering on the liminal edges of it, hands in his pockets, smile forced, gaze fixed on the pavement. </em></p>
<p>What the fuck, <em>Arthur thinks, the back of his neck prickling. Something is wrong. Something </em>has<em> to be. </em></p>
<p><em>Merlin doesn’t </em>look<em> any different. There’s no observable changes to him, he’s as skinny and pale and Merlin-ish as usual, perhaps even skinnier and paler, like those late nights writing papers and living on coffee or whatever have taken their toll. Conversely, the other guys have all transformed in various ways. Percy, most notably, </em>got huge, <em>his biceps nearly double what they were over the summer. His head is also shaved down to the skull, and he has a fucking triple X calf tattoo now because apparently college didn’t break his straight-edge ass and he’s still a douchy Slapshot fan. Elyan has a faint dusting of a five o’clock shadow and looks </em>way<em> less dorky than Arthur remembers him, and Leon’s grown his hair out and ditched his band shirts and Dickies for full-blown stoner wear. He looks like Shaggy from Scooby Doo and smells overwhelmingly like weed. But not the shitty roadkill possum stuff—the </em>good<em> stuff, so strong that it makes Arthur cough and sputter as they clumsily embrace. “You guys look fucking </em>different,<em>” he observes, gaze volleying between them all while carefully, deliberately avoiding Merlin. “Like fucking college assholes.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Elyan snorts and punches him lightly in the arm. “And you look exactly the same, the same pretty-boy Pendragon.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>“I </em>am<em> exactly the same,” he says, a note of defiance hardening his words even though he’s plastering on a smile. “Didn’t realize you guys would be here. Sick to see you.” Then, finally, as he casts his eyes on Merlin with cold, heavy intent, “my girlfriend is gonna catch up with us later.” </em></p>
<p><em>Predictably, Merlin’s eyes flash, his mouth falters, the shape of it changing before he presses his lips together. Arthur wants to feel </em>better <em>knowing he struck a nerve (even if he can’t really tell what nerve it is because Merlin’s always so fucking hard to read), but he doesn’t. In fact, he feels </em>awful. <em>His stomach turns as Elyan slings an arm around his neck and Leon catcalls before asking, “Girlfriend?! Really? Because I haven't seen </em>one<em> girl on Myspace—I’ve seen a few.” He waggles his eyebrows, and from the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Merlin wander over to the drinking fountain. </em>Wait, <em>he thinks, useless and stupid like a reflex. </em></p>
<p><em>“Yeah, well, okay, not a </em>girl<em>friend girlfriend,” he admits, shoving Elyan off and hopping onto his board, skating in an unsteady circle that brings him closer to Merlin, cutting in and out of his orbit as he loops around. “Just a girl. We’ll see.” </em></p>
<p><em>They skate for a few hours as the sun gets progressively lower in the sky, casting the pavement in an egg-yolky yellow light. Some kid keeps singing, “Here Comes Santa Claus,” over on the swings, and Arthur falls down twice fucking up his ollies. It’s not until his elbow is bleeding and his jeans are torn that Merlin finally, </em>finally<em> fucking sits down next to him on the edge of the bowl to watch the other guys fuck around. “Hey,” he says quietly, nudging his shoulder gently into Arthur’s. The touch barely happens, but it still makes Arthur flinch, his heart lurching. “Sorry—sorry this is weird. Leon sort of invited himself, then he brought Elyan, and it seemed weird not to invite Percy, too, since, like. I dunno. Everyone is trying to hang out while we’re all back for break.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“I’m not back for break. I’m here all the time, alone,” Arthur reminds him without looking up from his Converse as he bangs his heel against the cement side of the bowl. “I just thought we—”</em>
</p>
<p><em>“I know. I get it. But that's not how today is going, okay? I’m here for almost two weeks, Arthur, there will be plenty of time to hang out,” Merlin says urgently, but there's something hollow and unconvincing about it that makes Arthur have to swallow a dread-thick mouthful of spit. He wants to grab Merlin by his bony shoulders and stare him down, jostle him and ask </em>what the fuck is happening with us? <em>Instead, he just shakes his head, chews his lip, and curses Merlin’s stupid school that’s ruining everything because it’s easier than being mad at Merlin directly. It’s San Francisco State’s fault, he decides. “So,” Merlin says eventually, voice sounding thick. “Tell me about this girlfriend.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur snorts. “She’s not really my girlfriend. We’re just—I dunno. Hooking up, I guess. She hasn’t, uh, actually texted me back about coming.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Merlin smiles a little, and whatever. Arthur guesses his failures with girls are funny to him. He frowns, but it's hard to keep it up when Merlin is shifting closer to him so that their thighs touch on the pavement, warm and electric. Eventually, he’s smiling, too. “She’s actually sort of weird,” he admits. “You’d like her. She’s a, uh, a horse rider? I think? And also really good at keg stands.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“An equestrian,” Merlin corrects, reaching over and brushing dust and grit off Arthur’s leg. The heat of his touch bleeds through the denim of his red and black checked skinnies, and Arthur’s breath catches in his throat, snagging on an invisible hook. He’s about to suggest they just make something up so they can ditch the other guys and go to Sonic and share a root beer float or something when Merlin takes a deep, sudden breath and stands up. </em>
</p>
<p>Wait, <em>he thinks, stupid and useless like a reflex. </em></p>
<p><em>But Merlin picks up his board and drops into the bowl anyway, and he doesn’t look back, not once, and everything—it’s all wrong. This is not how they usually are. At the skatepark, </em>Arthur<em> is the one showing off while Merlin perches on the edge and watches, grinning at him, shooting him the thumbs up whenever he nails a trick. Arthur feels invisible without Merlin’s gaze, and it fucking </em>sucks. </p>
<p><em>Eventually, dusk comes for them, and the temperature drops, so they pack up and pile into Percy’s giant, sticker-encrusted Dodge Caravan to get burgers from the closest McDonald’s. There they sit outside on the patio, Leon tossing fries inexpertly into Elyan’s mouth, even though he keeps missing. Merlin is oddly quiet, and Percy is </em>always<em> like that, so Arthur feels tense and weird, like he has to make up for their silence by being extra loud, but he doesn’t remember </em>how<em> to be the fun guy he was in high school without Four Loko’s help, and it hits him then that maybe he </em>has<em> changed. Maybe they all have. It makes him sad to think about, even though he’s not sure why. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“You sure ate a lot of shit today, Pendragon,” Elyan eventually says, elbowing Arthur in the side. “Never seen you fall so much.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>“I’m out of practice without anyone to skate with,” he snaps before falling back on his favorite deflection: making fun of Merlin. “Plus, </em>noone<em> has fallen as much as Merlin. It’s amazing, back in middle school it was a miracle if he spent more time upright than on the blacktop.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>The other guys snicker because they remember, and Merlin makes a face because he always does. It’s a rote exchange by this point, a bit he and Arthur do, a series of rehearsed, boring lines and reactions. At least, that's how it feels, now. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But then Merlin says something he’s never said before: “The good thing about having had such a rough start to skating, though, is that my tailbone has been broken so many fucking times it’s just a misshapen little stub now, nothing I can do will hurt it worse,” he explains, reaching around and prodding idly at the base of his spine. “You guys should feel it. It’s gross. I didn’t even realize how fucked up it was until my friend at school pointed it out.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>And Arthur—Arthur </em>feels<em> the blood rush to his cheeks, his scalp suddenly itchy and hot. Because </em>he’s<em> never noticed anything wrong with Merlin’s tailbone. </em>He’s<em> never just </em>casually observed <em>it because </em>he’s<em> never just—</em>touched Merlin there. <em>The fact that he just nonchalantly mentioned someone else discovering something so intimate about his body makes Arthur feel sick. He hates the idea of Merlin having friends close enough to him they can just stick their fingers into his fucking ass crack. What the hell. “Your tailbone is </em>fine!” <em>he snaps, even though he knows he’s being crazy. </em></p>
<p><em>Merlin is already standing up and tugging his pants down a little, guiding Percy’s fingers past the shallow dimples framing his spine and to the injury in question. Percy is majoring in sports medicine, so Arthur supposes it’s not actually that weird, but still. He can’t look. He doesn’t </em>want<em> to look. His face is burning. “Oh, yeah,” Percy mumbles, brow furrowed as he feels around in Merlin’s jeans, like this is a normal bro thing to do. “Totally weird.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“I want to feel,” Elyan says, making a grabbing motion in the air. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Leon coughs and wipes his oily fingers on his jeans, scooting away. “I’ll pass,” he says. “No offense, Merlin.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>“None taken,” Merlin says, grinning, and </em>fuck, <em>Arthur can’t take that grin, he can’t stand knowing other people get to see it, perhaps more closely than he does. </em></p>
<p><em>“I’m with Leon,” he says, lifting his brows. “No interest in sticking my fingers up Merlin’s ass in a fucking McDonald’s.” And then, before he can see Merlin’s reaction, he gets up to splash some cold fucking water on his face even though he </em>hates<em> public restrooms. </em></p>
<p><em>Once he’s alone and bathed in eerie florescent glow, he stares at himself in the graffiti-scratched mirror and tries to figure out if he’s sunburnt or just hot as fuck for no good reason. Because Merlin put Percy’s hands in his jeans. Because he’s presumably doing the same thing to Elyan right now. Because everyone else is somehow okay with this except for him, and even then he doesn't know </em>why<em> it bothers him so much—why he feels like he reserves the right to touch Merlin. To know the details of his bones. </em></p>
<p><em>It’s </em>so<em> fucking annoying. Because, like, he </em>wants<em> to touch Merlin’s broken tailbone but not after two other guys have already done it on a McDonald’s fry-strewn patio. He wants to have dipped his fingers there when they were half-sleeping and alone, whispering, </em>what happened?<em> as he rubbed over the dips and whorls and cracks and fissures. He wanted to be the one who </em>discovered <em>Merlin’s broken tailbone. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>But he wasn’t, so it doesn’t matter. And it’s a stupid, crazy, weird thing to want, anyway. He knows that. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The blood roars in his ear, and it sounds like he’s lying at the bottom of the ocean, so he pretends that he is, just for a moment. That he’s being crushed beneath the thrumming mass of the sea, where everything is cold, and quiet, and wet. He closes his eyes and sways there, feet spread wide on the dirty tile to brace himself. Eventually, he’ll pull himself together, dry his face off, and kick the door open so that he doesn't have to touch the nasty-ass handle. But for now, he thinks of so much salt, so many dark waves, of his body being carried and tossed and battered among them until seagulls picked bits of him out of the rocks on the shore. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. KNEEL BESIDE YOU AND WATCH YOU FOR HOURS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>lol REMEMBER when I was like "I will get the rest of this out in a timely fashion," HAHAHA!! I was sorely mistaken! in my defense I have an injury right now thats preventing me from writing and lots of animal husbandry related issues that came up (a horse on medication, a new goat who is AN ESCAPE ARTIST, parasite treatment, it never ends etc). And writing anything save for short little easy stories has become sort of difficult. I'm hoping things change soon--I'd really like to finish this story soon and have everything planned out. </p>
<p>In the meantime, here is the angstiest chapter of the whole thing. It'll be find, it's temporary, it's a necessary shot before these guys can heal and feel better, but it was SO hard to write and its pretty long, so buckle up I guess. Also, content warning for dubiously consensual het sex in the flashback. Nothing graphic (I almost went there though, woof) but its heavily implied. </p>
<p>thank you all who are reading this and who have subscribed, you're so fucking kind to me and it does not go unnoticed &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2008</p>
<p>The next two days are the best days of Arthur’s whole life. They’re full to the brim with the boundless, lawless joy of summer vacation, but how summer vacation <em>should</em> be in a perfect world: no adults, no rules. Just Merlin, and Merlin, and Merlin. Merlin naked and spread out on dirty sheets, trying to keep his voice steady as he coaches Arthur through the throat-burning thrill of blowing him for the first time. Merlin shirtless in the kitchen, standing at the giant, seldom-used Viking stove, boiling water for ramen so he can make it the special way he learned in college, with garlic powder and Sriracha. Merlin straddling Arthur’s lap as they grind on the living room sofa, whatever episode of <em>Supernatural </em>they were trying to catch up on forgotten on the TV. Merlin curled around Arthur’s back when they finally fall asleep sex-sated some time after dawn, and Merlin tucked under his chin when they wake up well into the following afternoon. It’s <em>heaven, </em>and Arthur doesn’t want it to end. It’s easy to pretend they can carry on forever like this, like placid, sun-drenched lake water melting into the horizon, just the two of them on their raft, bobbing and completely alone, lost in each other. </p>
<p>But unfortunately, it’s the sharp green of spring and not the limitless burn of summer, and reality looms treacherously around the corner, hidden in tall grass like a snake poised to strike. Arthur can feel it watching them as he braces against it, terrified of what will change when the real world and all its prying eyes come to find them. </p>
<p>The first time it flickers out to sink teeth into Arthur’s ankles, he doesn’t even see it coming. They <em>just </em>finished sucking each other off, tangled up on the couch kissing lazily as their sweat cools into a tacky patina on their skin. Arthur is dazed and blissed out in a post-orgasm haze, grinning against the swollen plush of Merlin’s mouth as he mumbles, “<em>God, </em>I missed kissing you. It’s so fucking good. Nothing has ever been so good.” </p>
<p>Merlin nips at the corner of his smile, cheeks flushed, expression impossibly and endearingly smug. There have been more than a few <em>I told you so</em>’sin the last 24 hours, and Arthur supposes he deserves that. “I know. S’the best. Thank you for figuring it out.” </p>
<p>Arthur makes a face, tilting his head back in disbelief as he remembers how much fucking <em>time </em>he wasted thinking that kissing Merlin was the rising action of his story instead of the climax. “We used to do this and then go <em>make out </em>withrandom<em> girls? </em>What the fuck. Why.” </p>
<p>And instead of teasing him like Arthur expects him to, Merlin’s eyes flash, a sudden darkness eclipsing the snow-melt blue, like building storm clouds. “I don’t know,” he grumbles, soft mouth turning down at the corners ever so slightly as he shrugs in Arthur’s arms. “You tell me. Personally,<em> I </em>never made out with girls after. That was all you.” </p>
<p>With a lurching and sudden sickness in his chest, Arthur pulls away to study Merlin because that’s—that’s not how he remembers it. “Yes, you did,” he says. “You’d disappear with girls all the <em>time</em>.” </p>
<p>Merlin shakes his head, pursing his lips into a flat, reproachful line. “I mean. Yeah. Girls and I would go have conversations—usually girls who were questioning their sexuality. We’d, like. Find a corner and talk about being <em>gay, </em>Arthur. You just <em>assumed</em> I was kissing them because <em>you</em> were kissing girls. Or wandering off and getting your dick sucked or whatever. I dunno, I tried not to think about it.” </p>
<p>Arthur’s heart is thudding so loudly in his chest that he can feel it vibrating through their twined bodies. Sweat prickles on the back of his knees, in the ditches of his elbows. All this time, he just thought—they were doing the same thing. On the same stupid, clueless page. But now, knowing that Merlin wasn’t keeping one <em>big</em> secret from him but instead a hundred, tiny grains of secret sand, one for every weekend, every party…it stings. It makes him feel <em>stupid, </em>which makes him feel defensive. He knows he deserves the <em>I told you so</em>’s<em>, </em>but he just didn't realize <em>quite</em> how many there were. “I didn’t get my dick sucked <em>that</em> much,” he snaps, wrinkling his nose. </p>
<p>Merlin softens into him then, eyes flickering before he lays his cheek against Arthur’s sternum, over the furious thunder of his heart like he means to slow it with pressure. “Yeah, I sort of knew that, maybe, I just… always told myself you were so it would hurt less if I found out about it later,” he admits, and—<em>well</em>. It hits Arthur in the stomach like a blow, the sudden comprehension of what was happening…what <em>is</em> happening. </p>
<p>Merlin isn’t mad at him, he isn’t calling him stupid, he’s <em>hurt. </em>He’s <em>been</em> hurting for years. Relief melts over Arthur’s body in a shivery wave because this is something he can deal with. He doesn't know what to <em>say</em> to Merlin, the sage, superior, seasoned gay guy who <em>knew </em>all along while Arthur held up stupid fiery hoops up for himself jump through like a fucking circus dog, but he knows what to say to his best friend who’s in love with him. Who’s still getting used to the fact that Arthur loves him right <em>back. </em>He smooths a hand up the back of Merlin’s neck and cups him there at the base of his skull, razing his nails through his overgrown hair. “I was so into kissing you,” he promises, because he’s figured out that telling the truth is the best thing to combat Merlin’s bouts of insecurity. “That was always the best part of every party. I justified it by doing the other stuff, but I didn’t really want to. I was happy kissing you. I <em>would</em> have been happy kissing you all night. Letting <em>you</em> suck my dick instead.” </p>
<p>And thank <em>god</em>,that makes Merlin smile, hot and sly against him, lips soft. “Are you happy kissing me now?” he asks, voice barely more than a rumble of breath. </p>
<p>Arthur is <em>so</em> much more than happy that he hardly knows what to call it, how to describe it, there are no <em>words </em>for it, happy doesn’t even come <em>close</em>. So he tilts Merlin into the couch cushions instead and kisses him deep, licks him open, sucks on his tongue because he cannot fucking get <em>enough</em> of the way Merlin tastes. Like his past, his future, his <em>home. </em>“Yeah,” he eventually whispers, eyes shut because it’s still easier to say things that way. “Of course I am,” and then Merlin pulls him back down to kiss so that they might drift out to sea again. </p>
<p>It was a wake up call, though. A stark reminder of the fact that they are <em>not</em> totally on the same page, no matter how fucking <em>good</em> it feels to pretend this is some magical fucking bond where they can read each other’s minds, or something. Arthur needs to remember that Merlin has been thinking about this longer. That there are inevitably going to be moments when it catches him off guard and knocks him on his ass and maybe even hurts his feelings, a little. Arthur never likes feeling like he’s fallen <em>behind, </em>after all.</p>
<p>The next time something like it surfaces, it’s later that same afternoon, after they skate to Target for Icees and other necessary provisions. <em>Sex</em> provisions that Arthur doesn't yet have names for but is more than ready to try out. And it’s <em>fine</em>, at first, wandering down the aisles holding hands when no one is looking, giggling at everything and nothing, since the world is technicolor-beautiful when you're in love like Arthur is in love. They grab gummy sharks, pizza Pringles, plain Ruffles, pre-packaged seven-layer bean dip, and Tostitos, “like a Super Bowl party without the boring football part,” Merlin says, grinning because he’s always given Arthur a hard time for watching sports. </p>
<p>But then they pass through the toiletries section, and as Merlin grabs a bottle labeled <em>personal lubricant</em> and a box of condoms, Arthur chokes on his own spit. He <em>knows</em> he suggested this—he <em>wants</em> it, <em>badly</em>. But saying that in the messy throes of sex is <em>nothing </em>like standing beneath humming, too-bright florescent lights at Target while families weave by, buying shampoo and toothpaste and shaving cream and other innocent, normal-person things. Arthur’s cheeks burn as they walk to the register, and he can’t help but feel like <em>everyone</em> is staring at them. </p>
<p>Merlin, of course, notices. “Do you want me to put this stuff back?” he asks, eyes hard, firm—disappointed. And again, Arthur has let him down. </p>
<p>“Don’t! Don’t talk about it. Just. Pay for it,” he grumbles in a shame-tight voice, skittering a few feet behind Merlin, hands shoved into his pockets, nails digging into his palms. He knows he’s being ridiculous and paranoid, but it just hadn’t really occurred to him, how things might feel different in practice than they did in theory. In <em>public, </em>rather than in private. The lube and condoms look absurd between the gummy sharks and bags of chips, and he puts his hood up to hide from the cashier as she rings them up, even though she hardly bats an eye and has <em>very likely</em> seen worse and weirder things on her conveyor belt. </p>
<p>Merlin is oddly and glaringly quiet as they sit on the curb outside, and he's taking pinched, measured sips of the Icee they’re sharing instead of slurping it down noisily like usual. So naturally, Arthur drives himself insane trying to think of something—<em>anything</em>—to say to make it better. <em>I’m not ashamed of this. I still want you in me—still want to be inside of you. I still want everything with you, Merlin, I’m just not sure how to handle the idea of the whole fucking </em>world<em> knowing, so. </em>The words stick like tossed jacks in his throat, though, so instead, he stares at Merlin’s mouth, stained red from food coloring. “I’m sorry,” he blurts eventually, hooking a finger into the torn knee of his jeans and tugging uselessly at a loose string. “That I’m not as <em>comfortable</em> with this shit as all the hot, <em>experienced </em>gay men you probably bought lube with in San Francisco.” </p>
<p>And Merlin’s eyes are blown wide and shocked for a moment before he coughs out a surprised laugh. “What—what makes you think I’ve bought lube before?!” he eventually sputters.</p>
<p>Arthur frowns because he thought it was obvious. Or maybe it’s just <em>him </em>who obsessively tries not to think about all the hot, <em>experienced </em>gay men Merlin has probably already done this with. “You just… did it without being embarrassed, I don’t know.” </p>
<p>“Well,” Merlin says then, shaking his head, lips twisting in that telltale way they always do when he’s trying too hard not to smile. “I haven’t, before. All the guys I hooked up with in school already had stuff. Or, we didn’t need to use it.” </p>
<p>It slices through Arthur like a hot wire, cleaving him in two. Leaving him gasping there in the dirty parking lot, choking on cherry. “Oh,” is all he manages to say, though his mind is racing over a hundred messy, frantic worries. He <em>knows</em> he isn’t the first guy Merlin’s done things with—he can tell by the practiced, confident way Merlin touches him, which he is confusingly grateful for, even if he’s also profoundly and nauseatingly jealous about it. Because when it comes down to it, he fucking <em>hates</em> the thought of other guys touching Merlin. Making him feel good. Getting to experience the perfect, tight, sloppy-wet heat of his mouth because those things feel like they should be <em>his, </em>and his alone. But it’s stupid, he knows, and what’s more is that it’s <em>unfair. </em>He doesn’t deserve to be possessive over someone he refused to let himself admit his feelings for. Someone he <em>hurt. </em>Plus, <em>it’s his fault</em> Merlin’s slept with other men in college. It’s <em>his fault </em>Merlin went to college in the first place, even. And <em>that’s </em>the pure, undiluted core of pain at the center of Arthur’s insecurity: he doesn’t just hate the thought of other guys touching Merlin, he hates <em>himself </em>for being so stupid that he didn’t do something to prevent it sooner. “How many?” he asks thickly, the words sticking to the roof of his mouth, tongue Icee-numb. </p>
<p>Merlin studies the cracked concrete between the splay of his sneakers. “How many guys did I <em>not</em> buy lube with?” he ventures. </p>
<p>Arthur chews the inside of his cheek until it stings, heart sliding up his throat to choke him. “You know what I mean, Merlin.” </p>
<p>And Merlin <em>must </em>know because his sigh is sharp and irritated. He must know <em>everything—</em>not just what Arthur is asking but how much it stupidly, annoyingly <em>upsets him. </em>How unfairly jealous he is, so much so that it feels like vine tendrils tightening their way around his vocal cords, making his voice clipped and reedy, his eyes foolishly wet. “I don't <em>know, </em>Arthur, maybe—three? Four? It was always awkward, and I always thought about you while it was happening, so I don’t see why you <em>care.” </em></p>
<p><em>Because you’re mine, </em>Arthur thinks as he desperately swallows, mouth dry, throat aching. “I don’t care,” is what he ends up saying, which is, of course, a lie, followed quickly by another. “Happy for you, Merlin, that you were getting what you wanted. Good job. Congratulations.” It comes out acid-harsh and cynical-dry, and it just makes Arthur hate himself more, so he pops the domed top of their Icee off to stab at the muted pink block inside with his straw, again and again and again, to fill the silence with idle crunching. </p>
<p>Merlin takes it away from him. “I didn’t, though. Get what I wanted, I mean,” he says evenly. His gaze is hard and glassy, and Arthur feels flayed beneath it so he squirms, guts knotting up as Merlin stares. “Not until you told me you loved me back. That was it, that was all I wanted. The whole fucking time, okay?” </p>
<p>Arthur looks across the parking lot for a second. There’s a woman loading bags of clothes into her car, a toddler screaming from a booster in the back seat. There’s a couple about fifty feet away, cart full of homewares and unassembled furniture in boxes, like they just got a new apartment they’re trying to furnish. No one is looking at them, no one knows they exist, no one <em>cares </em>as much as he does, apparently, so he turns to Merlin and tells him, “Well. I love you back, still,” before dipping in and kissing him fast and hard on the mouth. It’s more of a strike than a real kiss, but Merlin’s lashes flutter for a few seconds against the pallor of his cheeks even after Arthur pulls away, and he hopes that counts for something. “Are you mad?” Arthur murmurs, face burning as he drains the rest of the Icee, which is easy to grab from Merlin’s loose grip. </p>
<p>“I’m not mad,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “Just worried all the time.” </p>
<p>“Merlin. Stop worrying,” Arthur says as he stands with false confidence, offering a hand to haul Merlin to his feet. “There’s nothing to worry about.” But as they skate back to his house, night tumbling down around them like a curtain call, he realizes that he’s worrying, too. Worrying that he’s too scared. That he’s not enough. That he was too slow, and Merlin has already outrun and outgrown him, even if he hasn’t realized it yet. </p>
<p>Arthur stops thinking about it once they’re back in bed, and Merlin is kissing him stupid and silent with cold, cherry-red lips. He stops thinking <em>entirely </em>when Merlin crawls down between his thighs, bends his knees to his chest, and licks the skateboarding sweat up from his crack, getting him wet and shuddering, making him <em>beg</em>. And then he loses his mind to static <em>completely </em>when Merlin uncaps the lube bottle to coat his index and middle fingers before working them inside Arthur’s body, filling him up with a slow, dirty-hot drag. His brain is white-hot fire and nothing else. He doesn’t know his name, he doesn’t know <em>shit, </em>all he knows is that Merlin’s breath tastes artificial-sweet as it huffs out over Arthur’s mouth each time he pauses kissing him long enough to ask <em>good? s’okay? </em>as he fucks in deep and hungry. All he knows is that the answer is <em>yes, god, yes, fuck, Jesus, </em>until he comes too fast into his own fist, Merlin’s fingers crooked promise-tight inside him as he flutters and spasms. </p>
<p>But once he floats down from his orgasm high, he starts worrying again. About how good that felt. How practiced, easy, confident. About how effortless it was for Merlin to grab lube off the shelf in front of strangers. How there are a million tiny unspoken things that Arthur doesn't feel ready for, or doesn't understand. </p>
<p>With Merlin warm and heavy next to him, though, he tells himself that the worries are just threads. Snagging occasionally but otherwise easily tucked back up inside a sleeve and forgotten. Maybe every time he starts to freak out, Arthur can just drown his jealousy and insecurity in Merlin’s kisses, each one serving as a folly, optimistic platitude. <em>It’s fine. It’ll work out. We have time. </em></p>
<p>But of course, it’s spring and the world is growing and moving and changing, heedless of what Arthur wants. So perhaps it’s to be expected, when <em>everything</em> officially unravels the following day, their artificial summer grinding to a sudden, lurching halt. </p>
<p>Hunith thinks Merlin is driving back to LA today, meaning he’s due home that evening. Their tentative plan is that Merlin will drive to his mom’s house, hug her, have dinner, and then invite Arthur over so they can spend the night together since it seems positively ludicrous to imagine being <em>apart </em>that long. Arthur hasn’t even <em>considered</em> sleeping alone—he’s not sure he can do it. </p>
<p>But as it turns out, there are also other things he’s failed to consider, too. </p>
<p>As Merlin gathers his dirty clothes from Arthur’s room and stuffs them in a trash bag so that he can do laundry once he’s home, he says, “You know, I’m actually, like, excited to tell my mom. She’s gonna be so relieved. I never <em>told</em> her exactly how I felt about you, but I knew she knew all along, I think. I was probably pretty obvious.”</p>
<p>Arthur <em>hears</em> the last bit, but he doesn’t <em>listen, </em>or <em>process, </em>or <em>internalize. </em>He’s too busy being stuck on how Merlin <em>so casually</em> dropped that he’s just. Planning on <em>telling </em>Hunith about them. It has Arthur’s brain turning into a fucking siren, sounding off in wordless, unrelenting panic. “Wait, what? Why are we telling her? Why are we telling <em>anyone?” </em>he blurts, because—this is a <em>secret, </em>he thought. His and Merlin’s, precious and untouchable and tucked between them like a flame too fragile to expose to open air. <em>This</em> at least they agreed upon. <em>This</em> at least was a feeling they shared.</p>
<p>But Merlin’s face falls, and it occurs to Arthur that maybe he was wrong about that, too.</p>
<p>“Arthur. I’ve been, like. Completely out at school,” Merlin says flatly. </p>
<p>“Out?!” </p>
<p>“Out of the <em>closet. </em>Like. Living as gay. Everyone knows I’m gay,” he explains, frustration tightening his mouth. “I don’t—I <em>can’t</em> go back to pretending I’m just friends with you. I’m sick of lying and acting like I’m—<em>we’re—</em>something we’re not,” he explains, voice measured and even and matter of fact, like this is something non-negotiable. </p>
<p>The sirens blare louder, blood rushing in deafening pulses in Arthur’s ears. “Well, <em>I</em> can’t just <em>tell</em> everyone! They’ll be <em>weird</em> about it Merlin, trust me. They won’t understand. That it’s not—”</p>
<p>“Not what? Not <em>gay? </em>It <em>is</em> gay, to me it’s gay, Arthur, <em>I’m</em> gay,” Merlin cuts him off, voice steely and wavering the same way it was over the phone that time Merlin called him and ruined his whole goddamned life for <em>weeks</em>. Arthur’s heart clenches in terror, throat going dry as his eyes well up reflexively. He rubs them with the heels of his hands, willing the tears back inside himself, because if he fucking cries right now, everything will be lost. He needs to stay steady. He needs to stay <em>sane. </em>But Merlin just keeps on fucking <em>talking. </em>“Arthur, I’m not <em>like</em> you. This is—it’s important to me. I’ve been hiding and <em>lying</em> to myself and everyone else for so fucking long, and I just—I just can’t do it anymore, okay?” </p>
<p>The worst part is that Arthur sort of gets it. He sort of knew this would happen, when they exposed the perfect, magical solitude of being in love to the rest of the ugly, shitty world. Merlin would realize that Arthur is too scared. That he’s not enough. That he’s too slow, and that he’s already outrun and outgrown him, even if he hasn’t realized it yet. </p>
<p>Arthur’s silence is a wet, thick, unsteady thing, and Merlin is perhaps waiting for it to end before he says anything, but it’s <em>not </em>ending, so a knowing darkness clouds his gaze, and he purses his lips. “You’re ashamed of this—of me,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, voice heavy with hurt. “ Aren’t you?” </p>
<p>And <em>that</em> at least is painful enough to spur Arthur into speaking. “No! That’s not it<em>,” </em>he tries to explain, heart racing as he stumbles hopelessly, desperately for the right words. He’s not ashamed—he doesn’t want <em>no</em> one to know. In fact, only a few hours ago, he was idly daydreaming about sucking a collar of hickies into the pale skin of Merlin’s throat so that every fucking hot, gay <em>experienced</em> guy at San Francisco State who gets close to him will <em>know</em> he belongs to Arthur. He doesn’t want it to be <em>invisible, </em>he just—“It’s that things are <em>perfect</em> right now, and I’m worried other people will, like, <em>ruin</em> things if we let them touch it,” he forces out in a clumsy, sick, tear-strangled jumble. “You don’t have to be in the <em>closet, </em>I just don’t want to tell our friends, or your mom, or, Jesus fucking Christ<em>, my </em>father.” </p>
<p>“So what's your plan then, Arthur? We just—continue on like this, friends who make out at parties sometimes, and fuck in private? I don't <em>want</em> that,” Merlin spits out, fierce and bitter. </p>
<p>It burns to hear because Arthur—Arthur <em>does</em> want it. He's not sure he’s ready for anything else, hasn’t paused long enough to even <em>envision</em> what it might be like to try something <em>different. </em>More honest. Out in the white, unforgiving glare like the light cast in the Target toiletries aisle. He’s not even sure what it would <em>look </em>like, so without thinking about it, he snarls, “Well, what do <em>you</em> want?!? </p>
<p>And Merlin reels back as if he’s been slapped, eyes flashing, a muscle flickering in his jaw. “I want you to be my <em>boyfriend!” </em>he shouts then, loud enough for the whole fucking neighborhood to hear. Arthur thinks of gunshots, again, but this time, it <em>does</em> feel terminal, it <em>does </em>feel like a wound, like a bullet hole. </p>
<p>He stands frozen, blood roaring in his ears. <em>Boyfriend. </em>Boyfriend. He hasn’t thought that word <em>once</em> about Merlin—he hasn't adjusted his perception of him one bit, in fact, let alone his perception of <em>himself. </em>He doesn’t think he’s gay, or the sort of person to have a <em>boyfriend, </em>just…a best friend who happens to be a guy who he’s also in love with. He just hasn’t <em>reconciled </em>these things with how he pictures himself, how he thinks of himself, what he <em>calls</em> himself, how he conceptualizes of his future. Arthur feels like he’s the same he’s always been: the same man who might marry the perfect woman someday, and Merlin will just inexplicably <em>be</em> there the entire time, by his side, <em>his. </em>It’s only just <em>now</em> occurring to him how impractical it is. How cowardly. How unfair and unsustainable and <em>selfish. </em>He never <em>really</em> stopped hiding—he’s just been living moment to moment, drunk on Merlin’s breath, on the wish of an endless summer. </p>
<p>Merlin’s voice is very small when he chokes out, “Did you really think we’d just—carry on like this? Without labeling it? Or, like—”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Arthur interrupts, scrubbing his hands over his face nervously, cheeks hot beneath the splay of his palms. “I just thought. Maybe things wouldn’t have to change so much.” </p>
<p>There's a ragged inhalation, then, and Arthur cannot look at Merlin. He stays rooted to the floor, staring through a teary haze at some indistinct patch of this own carpet, between carelessly tossed garments of dirty clothes. They could be his, or they could be Merlin’s, he doesn't know because they’re both black and come-stained, and he shouldn’t—he shouldn’t have to <em>divide things up, </em>or categorize them. He and Merlin should just be together, inexplicably, indescribably. Muddled and melted like crayons left out on the sidewalk in the middle of an August high noon. “Well,” Merlin says sharply, startling him out of his reverie. “Things<em> do</em> have to change, for me. So if you’re not—if that’s not going to happen, then…,” he trails off, scrubbing a hand through his hair, and <em>then </em>he grabs his hoodie from Arthur’s desk chair and resolutely shoulders it on. </p>
<p>Arthur’s gaze snaps up at the motion. “Where are you going?” he asks, hating the edge of panic to his voice, the way he sounds desperate<em>. </em></p>
<p>“On a walk,” Merlin mumbles, zipping up and shoving his hands in his pockets. “I need to breathe. I need to think.” </p>
<p>“Wait,” Arthur says reproachfully, taking a wobbly step toward Merlin, trying his fucking <em>hardest </em>to keep from grabbing him, from begging him to stay. <em>Not again, </em>he thinks, heart racing. <em>Please, don’t leave again. “</em>You can think <em>with</em> me.” </p>
<p>“No! I fucking <em>can’t, </em>Arthur, you make me <em>insane,” </em>Merlin chokes out then, backing away, eyes wet and flashing. “It’s why I went away to college, to—to get <em>away</em> from this, from the way you just. <em>Keep</em> me here, hanging on, wanting more from you, even though I’ll never fucking get it. We’ve <em>done</em> this already, I've done it for <em>years, </em>we’ve <em>been</em> best friends who operate as boyfriends for so fucking <em>long,</em> and I just—,” his voice cracks, snags, and then he’s taking a deep breath, tilting his head up to stare defiantly at the ceiling, like he can will the tears back into himself if only he doesn’t let them fall. Arthur thinks of the time he got a bloody nose in the middle of the night, how Merlin guided him to look at the ground so that everything would drip out in a copper-slick deluge, and so suddenly, he’s crying, too. “I can’t keep doing this,” Merlin murmurs then, voice choppy between great gusts of breath. “Needing parts of you that you’re not interested in giving me.” </p>
<p>Something cracks, then, and Arthur stops worrying about seeming desperate. In a second, he’s across the room, scrambling toward Merlin and cupping his face, thinking about how pretty his profile looked gazing up like that, no matter the overflow of his eyes. “Merlin,” he mumbles, thumbing over his tear tracks, boxing him in between his feet. “You have all of me, you fucking have all of me, okay?” But Merlin does not look convinced, he wavers on the spot, mouth a trembling, broken shape that Arthur has to kiss, so he does. Again and again, each press more fierce and demanding than the last, until finally, Merlin kisses back. </p>
<p>Arthur tries to lick into his mouth and steer him back to bed, but then Merlin is wrenching away, shoving him off, gasping. “I don’t,” he says, shaking his head, something dark and wounded in his eyes, something like <em>betrayal. </em>It cements Arthur into place. “I don’t have you in public. And, like…,” Merlin struggles, face crumpling for a moment before he schools it back into a mask, voice small and tight and hurt as he forces out, “Do you want to keep seeing <em>girls? </em>Playing it straight for your dad, living a double life? Because I—I <em>can’t—”</em></p>
<p><em>“</em>I don’t want that,” Arthur promises, even though he’s not sure because he doesn’t know <em>what </em>he wants, he hadn’t <em>thought</em> about it, Merlin just sprung all this on him right fucking now, and he can’t keep up. <em>I want you, </em>he thinks, grinding his teeth, wiping his eyes. <em>I don’t want you to leave. I can’t have you walk out that door again, leave me again, break my heart again, I can’t— “</em>I want to be with you,” he forces out, meaning it. </p>
<p>“Okay, but you don’t want me to tell my <em>mom</em> about it?” Merlin snaps back, voice clipped and sarcastic, eyes so bright they hurt to look at. He’s angry now—his hurt has grown armor, and Arthur doesn't know how to deal with that, how to be honest and vulnerable when Merlin isn't there with him, in the trenches. So he reels back, defensive. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Merlin! Can’t we just. Fucking take our <em>time</em> with telling people?! This is new, and I’m not—I can’t—”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Merlin says then, turning on his heel, the shape of his back like a guillotine, like a death sentence. “M’sorry, but that’s just. It’s not going to work for me.” </p>
<p>“Please,” Arthur begs, because his heart is stopping, the world is ending. The only thing worse than imagining people <em>knowing</em> he wants Merlin more than anything else in the universe is the thought of losing him again, and so. The thought flays him, strips him there so that his voice is nothing but a blood-slick raw nerve. “Please don’t leave, Merlin, <em>please. </em>I’ll. I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll—”</p>
<p>He must sound stricken enough that it scares Merlin because he whips back around, eyes wide and alarmed “Hey,” he says, voice low as he softens, walks back to Arthur, takes his elbows in his hands to steady him. Arthur can barely hear or see, his breath is coming out in staggering gasps, and he sort of feels like he’s not in his body at all, all of a sudden, and is instead floating somewhere near the ceiling, looking down at himself, at the way he’s nearly doubled over, pale and shaky. He feels like he’s dying, or already dead, and maybe…maybe this is a panic attack. He’s heard about those. “I’m not leaving,” Merlin says, voice barely audible over the thrum of blood in Arthur’s ears. “Arthur, c’mere. Sit down.” </p>
<p>They’re in bed, now, and Merlin is staring at Arthur, digging his nails into his forearm so roughly that it almost hurts, but at the same time it’s good because Arthur is back in his body, at least. He’s hyperventilating and cold all over and shivering so hard his teeth are chattering, but he’s here. Lying in his dirty sheets. Studying the concerned arch of Merlin’s brows. “Ow,” he says, because it's all he can make himself say. </p>
<p>Merlin loosens his grip, but only a little. “M’not going anywhere,” he repeats. And they just lie there for a minute, Merlin petting him, Arthur sucking in breaths and letting them out, until it stops being a conscious, survival-driven thing and shifts back into a reflex. He closes his eyes, wiggles closer, and presses his face into Merlin’s hoodie so that he can smell him. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he eventually says, voice muffled. </p>
<p>Merlin cups the back of his neck, thumbing back and forth over the skin behind his ear. “Me, too,” he murmurs. “And I’m not—I wasn’t <em>breaking</em> up with you. Even if we’re, like. Not boyfriends so we can’t really break up anyway. I just. I need space to figure out what to do, okay? You've got to let me have space, Arthur.” </p>
<p>“The last time you said you needed space—”</p>
<p>“I know. But this isn’t like that,” Merlin says firmly, tilting Arthur back a little to study him, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a sad, self-deprecating smile. “Arthur, you don’t realize how fucking much you mess with my head. I love you so, so much. You make me crazy and stupid, and it’s hard for me to think when you’re here, right in front of me. Especially if you’re begging me to stay.” </p>
<p>“Good,” Arthur grits out with a pout, leaning in again, even as Merlin tries to keep him at an arm's distance. He eventually caves after a few seconds and lets Arthur hide his face in the ditch of his neck. “Don’t think. Just keep doing this with me.” </p>
<p>“But I <em>need</em> to think,” Merlin mumbles, voice a sad, tired, tattered thing. He gently pries Arthur off, holds him in place to look at him, the blue of his eyes nailing him down. “Let me spend the night at my house, okay? I won’t tell my mom anything about us, I promise. And I’ll call you, and we can talk on the phone before sleeping if you want. And we can hang out first thing tomorrow. I just. I need to think about some stuff, and I need to be away from you when I do it because otherwise I’ll do what I've been doing forever and just go along with whatever you say, even if it's, like. Killing me.” </p>
<p>Arthur sniffles, thumbs gently over the bone in Merlin’s cheek. He's so pretty. It’s not fair, Merlin doesn't understand that <em>he </em>makes <em>Arthur </em>crazy, too. “I don’t want to kill you,” he eventually says, even if his insides are gathering up, knotting in protest. He doesn’t want Merlin to leave. He doesn’t want to sleep without him. But he also doesn’t want to <em>lose</em> him, and if this is what it takes to temporarily satisfy him, then, well. He supposes he’s got to take it. “So. Alright,” he concedes. “You can go home.” </p>
<p>Merlin kisses him then, and Arthur tries not to notice the way it feels like a guillotine, like a death sentence. </p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>2006</p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur is so fucking drunk that he can barely stand, so instead of even trying, he just sprawls out on an ottoman in someone’s basement, a girl on his lap. They’ve been flirting for awhile now, and he’s pretty sure they’ve even made out a few times, but it’s hard to keep track of stuff, when the same ten songs are blaring on repeat, and there’s a bunch of people playing Twister in the middle of the floor. He wants to get up, to find Merlin, to tell him about this hot brunette who he’s possibly already made out with, but every time he scans the room, it’s just a dizzying wreck of bodies and smoke and bass line, and Merlin is nowhere to be found. </em>
</p>
<p><em>The girl straddles him, leans down to whisper something in his ear. He can’t make it out over the sound of Kelis’s “Milkshake</em>,” <em>so instead he just nods reflexively. “Okay, yeah, cool,” he tells her, and she grins slow and hazy before sealing their mouths, tongue sloppy-wet, fruit-punch, vodka-sweet. </em></p>
<p><em>This girl is not as good a kisser as Merlin is, which sort of sucks but ultimately doesn't actually matter because kissing girls isn’t about being good or not good—it just is. It’s the thing to do. The end goal. It’s what makes kissing Merlin something Arthur doesn’t have to think about too deeply. It’s a Band-Aid, a friendly reminder that he’s on the right track and not actually a fucking freak. Just another teenager drinking jungle juice and playing Twister on a Saturday night, not at all obsessed with his best friend who may or may not also be drinking jungle juice or playing Twister, Arthur doesn’t really </em>know<em> because every time he looks for Merlin, he comes up short, a mess of hazy lights and almost regret. </em></p>
<p><em>The girl pulls away with a wet smack and slides off Arthur’s lap before hauling him up to his feet. He notices as he stands that there’s a ton of dog hair all over his black jeans, and he tries to pluck it off, but there’s too much, and the motion sends him off-balance to where he topples face-first into the upholstery, which smells like dog. This is a dog chair, clearly. Arthur was sitting on and making out with a girl in a dog chair, which is gross, like her kissing, but it’s totally normal, so he thinks it’s okay. Stuff can be gross if it’s normal. It’s only when things are </em>too good<em> and peculiarly </em>not gross<em> and decidedly </em>abnormal<em> that he starts to worry. But this—this isn’t what he wants, but it’s right. He’s on the right track. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“Come on,” she giggles, lacing their fingers and tugging him down the hallway. “Let’s find your friend.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Arthur stumbles after her and wonders what on earth she said to him that he blindly agreed to, and if it has to do with Merlin, and if it is normal, or not, and whether he should be worried, or relieved. If he asked for Merlin in the thickness of being blackout drunk, if his name slipped out one too many times, or if this is something else. He hopes it is something else, anyway. </em>
</p>
<p><em>They weave through crowds and knock against bodies, and he’s too hot, sweat prickling at the back of his neck, hand perspiration-slick as this girl clutches him with her black-painted nails. He wants to ask her name, but maybe she already told him and he forgot it, which would be embarrassing. Or maybe it’s </em>more<em> embarrassing to be the sort of guy who cares, who </em>wants<em> to know. Arthur’s never totally sure, what’s normal, and what isn’t. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>So suddenly, she’s dragging him into a room, shutting the door behind them both. “Is Merlin here?” he asks, collapsing onto a pink inflatable chair that wheezes beneath his weight, like it has a leak in it somewhere. He rolls off onto the floor instead so that he doesn't ruin it. “I don’t think he is.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Text him,” she says coyly, hopping onto the bed and assuming a sexy position, lying on her side with her head propped on a fist. Arthur studies her, thinking she’s perfect, she’s so pretty. Tiny waist, flat bare stomach visible between the very, very low-rise hem of her jeans and her black crop-top with glittery text on it. He squints, trying to read, hoping she’s not thinking he’s looking at her boobs, even though he sort of is because maybe that's what he’s supposed to be doing. He has no fucking idea.</em>
</p>
<p>Bad Kitty, <em>he realizes her shirt reads. He blinks. “Well?” she says, twisting hair around her finger. “Text your boyfriend.” </em></p>
<p><em>The word hits him like lightning, electricity zapping up his spine, cheeks suddenly hot as he tears his gaze away from her chest, heart pounding. “Merlin isn’t—we’re not </em>boyfriends,” <em>he explains in a messy slur, staring willfully at a stack of </em>Tiger Beat <em>magazines on the floor. Some blond swishy-haired guy named Jesse McCartney stares balefully back up at him from the glossy cover, but the scrutiny makes him feel weird, so he tears his gaze away, lets it skitter around the room. “We’re just. We,” but he stops, because he can’t tell this stranger whose name he doesn't know something as fraught as </em>we just make out at parties to pull girls<em> because then she won’t want to mess around with him anymore. And he needs to mess around with her so that tonight is a success instead of something to obsessively stress over, the way nights always are if making out with Merlin </em>doesn’t<em> pull a girl and instead Arthur is left with the painful reality that he doesn’t really </em>like <em>that part as much as he likes the kissing Merlin part. </em></p>
<p><em>“Okay, fine, </em>not<em> boyfriend. But you said he might be down, right? To hook up with both of us at the same time?” she clarifies, and </em>shit<em>, did Arthur </em>say<em> that? He probably did. He was very drunk. He still is very drunk, in fact, which is evidenced by the sudden, nauseating wave of dizziness that clouds his mind as he reels back to stare at her. </em></p>
<p><em>“Yeah, he might be down,” he says awkwardly, even though he’s pretty sure that Merlin </em>wouldn’t<em> be. He’s not sure how he knows—he just does. They've never talked about something like it, but he can easily imagine the flat line of Merlin’s mouth, the exasperated, hard edge to his gaze if Arthur were ever to propose such a thing. But at the same time, he doesn’t want to miss this opportunity to hook up with this girl. They’re alone in a locked bedroom together, after all. Her shirt says </em>Bad Kitty, <em>which is, like, promising. He’s on the right track, doing the right thing, cancelling out all the shit that got him here. He pulls out his phone and pretends to text Merlin, just to save face. “I told him to come.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“Sick,” she says, adjusting her shirt. “You guys are really hot together.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>“Thank you,” Arthur says awkwardly, even though he can feel his insides withering in shame, in confusion. He knows he and Merlin are supposedly hot together—that's why they kiss in the first place, because girls like it. Still, it feels weird and dirty to have her just </em>say<em> that to him, lying on this bed, pushing her chest out, toying with the spaghetti strap of her shirt or picking at a hole in her fishnets, like those are sexy things to do. He doesn’t know. He’s not sure what sexy stuff is supposed to look like, only that it makes him nervous, freezes him in place. </em></p>
<p><em>“Why are you all the way over there?” she asks playfully, patting the bed before spreading out on it unexpectedly, dark hair fanning across the pink pillowcase of this stranger’s pillow. Arthur’s heart pounds as he stares—he doesn’t know what to do, all of a sudden. He needs more vodka, or he needs Merlin for moral support, he needs—he needs—but before he can figure it out, she’s beckoning, and he’s standing on stiff, leaden legs crawling onto the bed. </em>You can do this, <em>he thinks. </em>You’re on the right track. </p>
<p><em>He kisses her, and pretends he is not kissing her. He imagines he’s doing something uncomplicated and fun, like drinking stolen hard lemonade with Morgana on a cruise ship the summer he turned thirteen. Or swimming in the pool at the country club in Burbank with Merlin on the day his dad rented it out for his birthday. But even those memories are weird and tainted because everything about Arthur is tainted if he presses hard enough until it gives, so he stops thinking all together. Stops pressing. He lets this girl roll him onto his back and press her tits into his hands, then he squeezes because that's what he’s supposed to do, the letters of </em>Bad Kitty<em> distorting so they’re impossible to read between his thumbs. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>At some point, his phone vibrates in his back pocket, and he’s going to ignore it, but she pulls back, spitting her hair out of her mouth to say, “Is that him? Your friend?”</em>
</p>
<p><em>“Um, maybe, hold on,” Arthur says, pulling her hair out of </em>his<em> mouth, too, because hair is fucking everywhere, it’s so weird, is this a fucking </em>thing<em> guys just live with and don’t talk about, hooking up with girls and eating so much goddamned </em>hair<em> that it’s choking them as they make out? He feels like he’s never heard anyone talk about it, so maybe he’s just doing it wrong. He fishes his phone out, and sure enough, he has a text from Merlin: </em>where r u? wanna go home soon? </p>
<p><em>Arthur’s heart aches in confusion because, actually, he secretly would </em>love <em>to go home. Where was Merlin half an hour ago when he was looking for him, looking for an out, an escape? Before he was stuck with a mouthful of tongue and hair and a lapful of sweat-tacky skin that he could only touch if he teleported into his memories? He frowns at his phone, then shoves it back into his pocket without answering. “Is he coming?” she asks. </em></p>
<p><em>Arthur turns back to her, squints at her face until his sight is blurry and she’s nothing but dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes, slender and black-clad. He lifts his hips toward her, she grinds down, and he can do this, he can </em>do<em> it, he’s on the right track, he’s doing the right thing. “Yeah,” he lies, even though he doesn't know why. “He’s on his way.” </em></p>
<p><em>“Well, we can get started without him,” she says, licking his teeth before biting him, and fuck, that </em>hurts,<em> he doesn't like it, but maybe he’s supposed to, so he bites her back. The kiss is sloppy and weird, and he wishes he could get drunker on the booze in her spit, but he can’t, so instead he just closes his eyes, pictures the blurry version of her, and lets that turn into Merlin as she kisses her way down his chest and unbuckles his jeans with a practiced, slender hand. </em></p>
<p>On the right track, <em>Arthur tells himself, phone vibrating against his ass, Merlin wandering around outside, looking for him. And he knows Merlin would never agree to something like this, that it would ruin both the grossness and normalcy he needs to make this worthwhile, but still. He wishes he was there all the same, solid next to him, or on top of him, or between his thighs like the slick of the ocean. </em></p>
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